


Cursed Fate

by Iturbide



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bigotry & Prejudice, Character Death, Characters after the first four listed are minor, Fictional Religion & Theology, Grief/Mourning, I'm actually having a hard time figuring out how to tag this, Lost Love, M/M, Relationship Told through Flashbacks, Resurrection, Shadow of the Colossus AU, Slight departure from my usual stuff but still kind of slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-06-13 15:37:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 57,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15367788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iturbide/pseuds/Iturbide
Summary: When Chrom makes his way to the Dragon's Table with Robin's body, he intends only to see the man he loves buried according to his own traditions.  But when a whisper calls to him at the altar and promises the return of Robin's soul, the prince of Ylisse does not hesitate: to right this wrong, no price is too high...





	1. The Dragon's Table

**Author's Note:**

> ~~I have no impulse control~~
> 
> A couple weeks ago, a friend of mine decided to replay Shadow of the Colossus. It's a beautiful game, fairly short with a straightforward premise, and one that the both of us have always enjoyed; unfortunately, as deep as I am in the Fire Emblem hole, all I could see throughout the entirety of the game were parallels to Awakening. 
> 
> And then this happened. 
> 
> Rated M entirely for the dark subject matter. Please be warned that this story is going to be _very_ bleak and _very_ angst-heavy; it's also going to feature extensive world-building and, since it is a fairly dramatic departure from the game's continuity, some non-standard depictions of several Awakening characters. I promise there's a rhyme and reason for everything in here, so I hope you enjoy this story that seeks to interweave the narrative elements of Shadow of the Colossus with the characters and setting of Fire Emblem: Awakening.

Nothing in Chrom's life had prepared him for what lay beyond Ylisse’s western border. In his youth, his father had told him stories of the harsh desert waste, the ever-shifting sands and whipping winds, the cloudless sky denying any chance of relief from the oppressive heat...but riding through the frigid dark, he could not help but marvel at the beauty of the silvered dunes, rising like frozen waves toward a sky full of more stars than he had ever imagined possible. The moonlight rippled down the slope as the mare’s hooves stirred the sand, leaving their wake shimmering as she picked her way along the sinuous ridge stretching out of sight into the distance. 

Robin had promised that they would see Plegia together someday. But as Chrom tightened his arm around the shroud-wrapped body slumped against his chest, he wished that it could have been any other way than this. 

As the desert gave way to sandy scrub dotted with cacti, the silhouette of a tower blotted out the stars. A quiet word and a gentle tug on the reins turned his mount toward it, her easy pace carrying them through the spire’s looming shadow to the stairs at its base. Dismounting carefully, the prince gathered the motionless body into his arms, settling the weight even as he turned toward the steps leading up into the dark. 

The horse whickered as he started up out of sight, pawing at the cobbled path behind him. “No, Amber,” he murmured. “I have to do this alone.” He felt her nose his neck, her warm breath ruffling his hair -- but he did not turn, instead moving up into the lightless tower...and to his relief, the mare’s hoofbeats did not follow. 

Looking up, Chrom’s gaze drifted from one silvered window to the next, rising out of sight along the spiral stair. His steps wound endlessly upward, guided by the pools of moonlight that spilled across the stones; his breath began to fail him the higher he climbed, his legs growing leaden and his pace slowing to a crawl as he began to question whether there even was an end, or if the tower simply went on forever, up to the starry heavens that turned over Plegia’s silvered sands…

But finally he came to a platform, faltering as he tried to climb a stair that did not appear. He moved slowly between the ornate pillars, letting his gaze wander from the open roof to the colored stones radiating out from the central altar, Grima’s six-eyed mark inscribed at its base. Mounting the narrow steps, he lay the body down, unwrapping the pale shroud and letting it fall forgotten to the floor. 

Under the moonlight, Robin’s hair still shone silver where it peeked from beneath his gold-trimmed hood. But death had stolen any other light from him: the face that had once smiled so brightly at him was now slack and expressionless, the golden-brown eyes that had shone with cheer permanently closed, the sweet chime of his laughter forever silenced and ringing only in the prince’s memories. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, brushing his knuckles across the cold brow. His hand strayed down to his hip, brushing against Falchion’s hilt, and a tremor went through his fingers as he gripped it tight, wondering again what he could have done differently to change this, _prevent_ this, as his eyes began to burn--

A low, soft hum filled the chamber, as if something huge had drawn in a breath. A chill went down his spine as he looked around, drawing the holy blade from its scabbard and pointing it toward the shadows. But as its glow chased the darkness back, he found himself alone. Had he imagined it…?

_“You are one of Naga’s, are you not?”_

The whisper shook him down to his very bones. His grip tightened on Falchion’s hilt as he glanced up through the open roof toward the waning moon, then back into the shadows. Swallowing hard, he lowered the blade, drawing in a steadying breath and steeling his nerve. “...are you Grima?” he called into the dark. 

The sound came again, a deep vibration like a breath of laughter. _“Yes,”_ the voice replied. _“I am the one known as Grima. For what purpose have you come, Child of Naga?”_

Turning toward the body lying on the altar, Chrom reached out his free hand, the tips of his fingers touching the six-eyed brand on Robin’s right hand. “I couldn’t save him,” the prince breathed. “I thought this was where…”

He stopped, his hand trembling as he lifted his head. “...the people of Plegia believe that you keep watch over souls. Take them in death, and...and return them to the world on Grima’s Night.” He took another shaky breath, his fingers folding around Robin’s. “You could return his soul, give him back his life. Couldn’t you?” 

The prince shivered as the air around him stirred. _“Once lost, life cannot be restored to the dead -- is that not the law of Naga’s following?”_

Frowning, Chrom searched the darkness beyond the moonlight’s reach, watching for any trace of movement from the shadows as he tried to find the words, the argument, the _logic_ that might convince the presence. “Robin was never one of Naga’s followers,” he said slowly. “He was...he _is_ your Heart. Isn’t he?”

Silence met his words. The sudden stillness shook him more than even the voice had when it first whispered in his ear -- had he misspoken? Overstepped? Had he wasted the only chance Robin might have had…?

_“...what you ask may not be impossible.”_

A rush of relief swept through him, his heart pounding against his ribs. “Really?” 

_“There is a chance. But only if you can accomplish a task for me.”_

“Anything.”

His voice broke on the word, desperate and pleading in spite of his best intentions. A low vibration stirred the air, a thoughtful hum that made his breath sharpen. _“When your forebear laid me low, those who worshipped my name sought to preserve my power to protect them from those who would do them harm. They forged eight items from my remains, which have endured through a thousand years only to fall into the hands of the corrupt and wicked. When those items are brought together here, your prayer might be answered.”_

Chrom nodded, tightening his hand on Falchion’s hilt. “I understand,” he replied. 

_“Be warned, tiny one,”_ the voice murmured as he stepped down from the altar. _“The cost of this feat may be heavy, indeed.”_

He turned, his heart twisting in his chest as he looked at the figure lying still in the moonlight. “It doesn’t matter."

The ghost of a breath filled the room, lifting the hair on the back of his neck. _“If that is your choice, then listen well…”_


	2. Grima's Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chrom sets off to claim the first item of Grima's power: a scrying sphere held by a powerful diviner. While his memories of Robin help to carry him on his way, it is a chance meeting with one of Robin's old friends that points him in the right direction -- though even that will not be enough to ease the fight ahead...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we reach our first chapter with substance, and start to unravel the history between Chrom and Robin that brought us to this point. Anyone familiar with my usual long-form works is probably aware that I'm a big fan of breaking chapters into different sections, using different break formats for different things; for this chapter, look out for the slashes (/) that represent a flashback. With that said, I hope you enjoy!

Chrom held his breath, listening to the wind singing past the tower and waiting for the low voice to speak again. The silence stretched, though the presence surrounding him did not fade, and he feared the thunder of his pulse might deafen him to the quiet words when at last they came. 

Instead, the whisper hummed through his bones, filling his ears and drowning out his heartbeat. _“To the south there lies a temple dedicated to my name. In that place resides a crystal sphere derived from one of my body's eyes: in capable hands, it can locate what is hidden or lost, divine the true nature of things, or reveal the intentions of whatever its holder wills. The woman who keeps it is adept, but corrupted by her own lust for power and accolades. Take it and return it here; without it, the enemies to follow will be blind to your course and your motives…”_

“Wait,” he called as the voice faded. “How will I find her?” He had never set foot on Plegian soil before, had no knowledge of the territory or its landmarks; how would he even find the temple, let alone the unknown woman with the crystal, without knowing what any of them looked like? 

Even as the thoughts swirled through his mind, a breath of laughter seemed to fill the room. _“The blade you hold shines bright in the presence of my power. Its glow will guide you to what you seek.”_

He looked down again at the sword in his hand. The light flickered along the blade’s length, a white flame drawn toward something unseen. Nodding slowly, he sheathed it once more at his side, cast a final glance toward the body on the altar, and retreated from the platform, feeling the presence fade behind him as he wound his way down the spiral stair to the tower’s base.

The mare whickered as he stepped out of the shadows, pacing forward to meet him at the bottom of the steps. “Did you miss me?” he chuckled as she bumped her nose against him. “...I know it’s been a long journey, just getting here,” he murmured, moving to pull himself up into the saddle, “but do you think you can manage a little more?”

The horse snorted, tossing her head lightly and beginning to move with the barest touch of his heels to her sides. “Thanks, Amber,” he smiled, patting her neck before unsheathing Falchion once more. Lifting the sword high, he watched the light ripple across the silver blade, tugging on the reins until the mare’s hoofsteps moved in the direction of whatever drew the glow. Another touch of his heels and her walk became a trot, then a canter, kicking up the silver sands behind her. 

His mind strayed as they raced through the moonlight. A year ago -- less -- he could not have imagined crossing the halidom’s western border, let alone trekking across Plegia’s terrain. But Robin had changed all that. With little more than a smile, Robin had changed everything. 

/////

Chrom hadn’t believed it when Sumia stumbled into the garrison, babbling that there was a Plegian in Ylisstol. Even as she doubled over, fighting to speak and catch her breath at the same time, her wild hair and dusty uniform proof enough of how much of a hurry she'd been in to deliver the news, the prince had been absolutely certain that she was trying to trick him. 

But as he and Lissa stood at the top of the palace steps, peering around the doors at the hooded figure in the black and gold coat, he realized that he would probably need to apologize for doubting her. 

“What’s he doing here?” his sister hissed. 

“How should I know?” Chrom muttered back.

“Do you think he’s gonna hex us?” she asked. 

“Why don’t you go ask him?” 

“Wh-why me!? You’re older, s-shouldn’t _you_ be the one doing that kind of stuff?”

“...you’re scared, aren’t you.”

“No!” she protested quaveringly. 

“Are so,” he taunted. 

“I am _not!”_

“Prove it, then. Go talk to him.”

“If _you’re_ so brave, why don’t _you?”_

“I guess if you’re too chicken, then I will,” he sighed. 

“I told you, I’m _not scared!_ ” she huffed, stomping her boot on the stones for emphasis. 

He snorted, moving to pass her. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’ll show you,” she grumbled, cutting in front of him and storming through the castle entry. Ducking back out of sight, the prince watched her stride slow to a brisk march, then a nervous crawl -- and finally to a complete stop, her pigtails shivering as the hooded figure turned toward her. Chrom reached warily for the rapier at his side; even if the stranger’s eyes didn’t glow red under his cowl, as their father had always claimed, there was still no telling what a Plegian might do to them…

The figure reached up, pushing back his gold-trimmed hood. He was younger than Chrom had expected: not a withered mage but a young man seeming little older than the prince himself, in spite of the silver-white hair that framed his well-tanned face. Even from where he stood, Chrom could tell that the Plegian’s eyes were brown, rather than the color of blood…

The man smiled, and the prince’s thoughts ceased to turn. 

The expression he wore was not a smirk nor a sneer, but something warm and earnest as he folded his hands before him and offered a deep bow. Before Chrom could quite register what he was doing, he had passed the threshold and come to stand beside his sister, who herself had lost all hesitation and stood no more than a pace away from the stranger as he straightened. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Robin. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s ours,” Chrom replied, extending his hand. “I’m Chrom, and this is my younger sister, Lissa.”

Robin looked briefly at the prince’s outstretched arm before seeming to realize his intent -- and Chrom swore he saw a blush of color darken his tanned cheeks as he clasped the prince’s fingers in his own. “Please forgive me,” he said, sheepishly ruffling his unruly hair. “I am afraid my manners may not be right.”

“Oh, no, you’re fine!” Lissa insisted, giggling as the Plegian offered his hand to her but shaking it agreeably, even so. “Did you really come all the way from Plegia? How’d you get here?”

“I rode much of the way,” he replied. “I was told it would be alright to stable my mare for now -- is that alright?” he added, his nervous frown easing into another smile as both Chrom and his sister nodded. “Unless you mean how did I cross the border. I met two very kind pegasus knights at the crossing who escorted me here -- which I very much appreciate, for I am sure I would have lost myself without their guidance.”

His laughter brought a smile to the prince’s face. “It must have been a long trip, if you came through the mountains.”

“Are you hungry?” Lissa asked excitedly. “We can get you something from the kitchens if you want!”

“Oh, no no, please, that is quite alright,” Robin insisted. “I mean no disrespect, and thank you very much for the offer, but there is something I must do first.”

“And what might that be?” a gentle voice asked. 

They all turned as Emmeryn approached, her hands folded before her. Robin smiled, offering a low bow -- before quickly straightening and holding out his hand as Chrom had done (which she took, giggling softly into her other sleeve). “My name is Robin,” he said. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is ours,” she insisted. “I am Emmeryn, first princess of House Ylisse. I see you’ve already met my brother and sister. Please, how may we help you, Robin?”

The young man stood up slightly straighter. “I have come on behalf of Plegia to parley with the Exalt of Ylisse,” he replied. “The war between our nations has gone on for many years -- it began before I was born, and even now shows no signs of ending, aside from these temporary lulls. My hope is that we might discuss terms for a true peace treaty, and put an end to this war at last.”

The entry hall fell gravely silent. Chrom and Lissa both looked to their older sister, whose smile had faded into a troubled frown while the Plegian spoke. Robin glanced between them, his hopeful cheer flagging as he rubbed the back of his gloved hand. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Emmeryn assured him gently, laying a hand on his shoulder. “But...I fear that what you seek may not be easily attained. The Exalt -- our father -- is...a difficult man.”

“But I must try,” the young man insisted. “The people of Plegia are not the only ones who suffer for this war. Even if he cares nothing for the plight in Plegia, would he not listen for the sake of his own citizens?”

Emmeryn sighed, turning down the long hall and motioning for him to follow. “Come with me, then,” she murmured. As Robin’s long stride easily brought him up beside her, Chrom hurried after them, a heavy sense of dread sinking into the pit of his stomach as they passed beneath the arch and into the gleaming throne room where the Exalt sat in his regalia. 

The prince saw his father glance up at the intrusion -- and in the next instant, the man’s eyes hardened, his knuckles paling as he gripped the arms of his seat. “What is _that_ doing here?” he snarled. 

Chrom felt Lissa duck behind him even as he froze in place. But their older sister only bowed her head in deference, gesturing to the young man beside her as he followed suit. “Father, this young man has come to negotiate terms of peace.”

The Exalt scoffed, his hard stare never straying from Robin’s face. “I will not degrade myself by submitting to the demands of a filthy Plegian.”

“I make no demands, Your Grace,” the young man insisted, lifting his head and stepping forward with arms outspread. “I come in the spirit of good faith, that both Ylisse and Plegia might have peace and begin to thrive in cooperation rather than suffer at war. This conflict only causes harm to our people, stealing lives, tearing families apart, and destroying resources, leaving villages empty and lands barren or fallow. Please, I ask that we might work together, for the good of both our nations, to see this war end so that all are satisfied.”

The prince saw his father sneer as he rose from the throne, his crown catching the light streaming through the windows to halo his head in a blinding glow. “Such pretty words,” he growled. “But words are all they are. I know the nature of your heathen kind: peace is wasted on your so-called _people._ The world will not be safe until every man, woman, and child who claims Grima as their divine lies dead and burned to ash, and the remnants of your defiled land are nothing more than a smoking ruin forgotten by time and history.”

Without sparing the young man another glance, the Exalt turned away. “Remove him,” he commanded. 

Robin did not move. 

Chrom could barely breathe as he watched his father move toward the windows. Stepping quietly forward, he gently took hold of the young man’s arm, frowning at the tremor he felt beneath his hand. “Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s go.”

Robin made no reply. But as the prince turned back toward the doors, the young man followed, his face seeming deathly pale in the bright sunlight.

They left together, the royal heirs crowded in tight formation around their Plegian guest. “I’m sorry,” Emmeryn murmured as they returned to the entry hall. “I didn’t think that he would react so harshly, but…”

“What will I do?”

Robin’s voice was so small that even standing at his side, Chrom very nearly missed it; harder to ignore was the man’s shaking, growing more intense as he raked his free hand through his hair. “He wants no peace, only conquest -- how can I go back with that news, how can I…”

“It’s alright,” Emmeryn said softly, touching his shoulder.

The prince swore he saw tears in the Plegian’s eyes as he looked up at her. “How can it be alright?” he pleaded. “The Exalt will not negotiate, the war will only escalate again -- what if I made it worse by coming? W-what if he raises arms again because a Plegian crossed the border in peacetimes?” Chrom tightened his grip on the young man's arm, suddenly terrified that Robin’s knees might fail him from the sheer force of his tremors. 

But Emmeryn seemed undaunted, offering a reassuring smile. “Don’t lose heart. I will see what I can do,” she promised. “It may be slow, but...together we may be able to find a solution.”

“...you would do that?” the young man breathed. 

“Of course,” she agreed. “But you must be exhausted from your journey, and that trial couldn’t have helped. We can speak at greater length later: Chrom, Lissa, could you arrange a room and a meal for our guest?” she asked, turning to her siblings. “Give him a warm welcome.”

“We’ll be happy to,” the prince grinned.

“Yeah!” Lissa piped up, linking her arm with the Plegian’s. “Hey, I bet they’ve got some fresh pies cooling in the kitchens by now -- do you like pie?” she asked.

“I-I cannot say,” Robin confessed. “I have never had it.”

“Well, we’ve _gotta_ fix that,” she laughed, tugging on the young man’s sleeve to coax him down the hall leading toward the kitchens. 

Robin mustered up a shaky smile, lifting a hand to dry his eyes. “...thank you,” he said, looking between the three Ylisseans before agreeably following Lissa’s lead. “Truly, I cannot thank you enough for your kindness.”

“No need to thank us,” Chrom chuckled. “We want you to feel at home.” It seemed the very least the young man deserved.

/////

When the voice had spoken of a temple, Chrom had imagined a grand structure: perhaps a rotunda with ornate columns to hold aloft an open roof, or a great covered platform ringed by pillars and open on all sides to the air. But as the mare paced through the gap in a low stone wall and Falchion’s light began to pulse, the prince wondered if there hadn’t been some mistake: aside from the long buildings ringing a mountain of sand, he saw nothing at all -- certainly nothing that could be construed as a place of worship.

Sheathing his blade, Chrom dismounted, moving toward one of the structures between the wall and the central dune. He pushed the door open just enough to peer inside...and found what appeared to be a storehouse: clay pots lined the crowded shelves, bunches of drying plants hung from the rafters, jars full of shells and bones cluttered the benches pressed against the walls beneath all manner of tools, from hammers to pestles…

“Who goes there?”

The prince jumped, his hand falling to Falchion’s hilt. Even as he took a wary step back, the horse behind him whickered and moved past, nudging a figure standing in the shadows…

“...Amber?”

It was a woman’s voice that spoke, low and soft. Chrom watched her move out of the dark, the moonlight flashing across the gold circlet in her black hair as she stroked the mare’s nose. “When did you get back, Robin? You know you could have sent word, there was no need to come all this way…”

The prince’s heart constricted as she turned toward him, her expression shifting rapidly from excitement to confusion to unease. “Where is Robin.”

He heard no question in her voice. Drawing an unsteady breath, he watched the young woman grip the horse’s reins. “He’s at the Dragon’s Table.”

She lifted a trembling hand to her mouth, horror and dismay warring in her face as she shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “No -- no, _no,_ he can’t b...he _can’t_ be…”

“You’re Tharja, aren’t you,” he asked, moving slowly closer as she drew a round glass from beneath her cloak, cupping it in her palms and tilting it into the moonlight. “Robin told me about you. He…”

She hunched her shoulders, sniffling as she clutched the silver mirror to her chest. “You...are you Chrom?” He nodded as she looked up at him again, wiping at the dark streaks on her cheeks with the heel of her hand. “He wrote about you. His letters seemed fond -- smitten, even…I was a bit jealous of you.”

Which, from everything Robin had told him, meant that she'd been fuming. “You loved him.”

“He was dear to me,” she whispered. “Even if his heart called him elsewhere, he was my friend. All I wanted was for him to be happy and well. ...I was worried when he voiced his intentions to go to Ylisse. I wanted to accompany him, ensure he stayed safe, but...he insisted that he could take care of himself, and that the halidom’s guards would find it hard to construe one man as a war party. ...he seemed hopeful that he could succeed, and that there could be true peace, and I...I wanted him to be right. What happened?”

Chrom’s hand strayed down to Falchion’s hilt and held fast. “Something I was too weak to stop,” he whispered. “But something that I’m here to make right. I’m looking for someone -- a diviner with a crystal ball.”

“Afrid?” she frowned. “What do you need from her?”

“The crystal holds part of Grima’s power,” he explained. “It can bring Robin back, if…”

Tharja shook her head, her dark eyes pitying as she met his gaze. “Afrid would never part willingly with her scrying orb. She refuses to let anyone else even look into it, let alone touch it. And even then...there is no hex capable of restoring life to the dead. Not truly. They may move, but...even if it looks like Robin, it would not be him anymore.”

Chrom mustered a weak smile. “He’s Grima’s Heart, though. Isn’t he? If anyone could come back whole...I think it would be him.”

Her surprise faded into the ghost of a grin as she carefully dried her face, leaving dark marks smudged across her skin. “He always did seem capable of the impossible,” she agreed, turning a knowing look toward him. 

“Will you help me, then?” he asked. “Where can I find her?”

“She would be in the temple’s inner sanctum, at this hour.”

“What temple?” He lifted his head, looking around at the barren space. Tharja rolled her eyes, striding over to the great mound of sand and pressing a hand against the side; as he followed, he heard her say a soft word -- and in an instant, the shifting grains spilled away, exposing a stretch of light stone. Even as he gaped, the young woman gripped a concealed handle, pulling open a door leading to a lightless passage. 

“ _This_ temple,” she replied smugly. 

“When Robin said you hid your places of worship, I didn’t think he meant like _this,_ ” the prince muttered, drawing his sword as he leaned into the tunnel. Several paces on, the corridor branched to either side, and a set of stairs led deeper into the earth. “Down to the inner sanctum?”

She made a soft sound of agreement as he pulled back. “Would you mind taking care of Amber?” he asked, glancing toward the mare standing a few paces away. “It’s been a long trip, and she could do with some food and water--”

“Hold still.”

He froze, his fingers tensing on Falchion’s hilt. “What is i--ow!” He flinched at the sharp tug that plucked a strand of hair from the top of his head. Turning toward her, he watched in confusion she wound it around a tented bundle of twigs standing on the surface of her mirror. The air around her rippled like heat haze in spite of the evening chill, and as she whispered something over them, the items on the silver disc crumbled into ash. “...what was that?” he asked, fighting back the nervous prickle of unease crawling down his spine. 

“Just a little hex to ease your way,” she mused, blowing the dust toward him before tucking the glass out of sight again. “It should keep Afrid from detecting you in the temple, so long as she’s not looking for you. It’s not much, but…”

“Every bit helps,” Chrom assured her, touching her shoulder gently. “Thank you, Tharja. Take care of Amber until I get back, if you could.”

“Be careful in there,” she replied, taking hold of the mare’s reins. “Afrid is hardly as frail as she seems.”

Nodding gratefully, the prince slipped into the dark corridor, barely pausing as the door sealed closed behind him. Picking his way to the top of the stairs, he glanced down at the narrow steps spiraling out of sight...and carefully made his way down. The blade’s glow seemed far too bright within the cramped space, but he dared not hurry any faster for fear of falling; part of him grudgingly admired the ingenuity of the temple’s design...and another felt a pang as he wondered how many times that defensible construction had been put to the test. 

As he reached the bottom, Chrom breathed a steadying sigh, lifting his sword slightly higher as he moved out into the halls beyond. The passage curved away to either side, branching out below the desert...but further on, the blade’s glow winked off something on the solid wall. Creeping toward it, he saw the light play off deep marks etched into the stone, resembling feathers the more he looked...but only when he arrived at the doors did he realize that they were outstretched wings -- and the glint that had drawn him were the gemstones fitted into the eyes of Grima’s face.

It took him another moment to realize that the carvings adorned a pair of sturdy doors, with three of the fell dragon’s eyes on each side. Testing the deep engravings, his hand found a grip within the skull-like mask -- and with a firm tug, the stone moved, parting just enough for him to slip through. 

He did not need the sword’s glow to light the cavernous space: much like the rotunda atop the Dragon’s Table, a skylight in the domed ceiling high overhead allowed the moonlight to shine through, illuminating a hunched figure seated at the room’s center. “What is it, Tharja?” a reedy voice snapped. “I left specific instructions that I was not to be disturbed tonight.”

Chrom stepped forward, gripping Falchion’s hilt in both hands. “Speak up, girl,” the woman demanded, gesturing impatiently with a withered hand -- and beyond her voluminous sleeve, he caught a glimpse of a violet orb, its smooth surface cloaked in a shifting aura. Increasing his pace as much as he dared, he prayed that she would not stir, would not rise, would not turn…

“Oh, for Grima’s sake,” she huffed, creaking to her feet. Cursing silently to himself, the prince lunged, trying to knock her off balance -- only for her to dart aside; he staggered, barely managing to recover in time to dodge a blast of dark magic. 

“Naga’s spawn,” she hissed. Rolling to his feet, Chrom charged again, desperate to prevent another spell. The wrinkled face, half-hidden beneath a gilt hood, sneered as golden runes sparked to light, forcing him to change course to avoid the blast. “Foolish boy. Do you really imagine you can best me? I’ve no fear of Naga’s wretched blood -- not with Grima’s sight to guide me.”

The prince retreated several steps as the aura surrounding the crystal cradled to her chest began to swell, engulfing her in a violet haze. Dodging a dark cloud of magic, he lunged again -- only for her to turn easily aside from the attack once again, cackling as he rolled away from her next volley. Gods, what was it that the voice had said? That the gem could...reveal intentions? Could she read his mind? 

“Ah, perhaps you’re brighter than you seem,” she chuckled. “Grima’s Eye can see your every thought -- you’ve no hope of leaving this sanctum alive, accursed son of Naga, and all Plegia will sing my praises when I present your branded corpse!”

Chrom reeled back, narrowly avoiding another spell. How was he supposed to win when his enemy knew every move he planned to make?

“You cannot hope for victory,” the diviner scoffed. “Lay down your blade and I’ll grant you a swift death.”

“Never!” the prince snarled, tightening his grip on his weapon. Robin’s life depended on his success, he _couldn’t_ give in…

What was it that Robin had told him when they came up against those bandit mages? Head-on assaults against magic-users tended to end with someone charred beyond recognition. Better to feint: draw their fire, evade without any loss of momentum, and strike them down before they had a chance to recover. It was the only chance he had. 

“Foolish boy -- you have learned nothing at all, and it will be your death!”

He charged, sword at the ready, watching as the golden circles surrounded the diviner once more. Gathering his strength, he crouched, his gaze straying right for just an instant…

Her spell crashed to the polished stones beside him as he lunged straight ahead, driving Falchion’s point through the woman’s billowing robes. The diviner shuddered, a ragged gasp painting her lips with blood; pulling the blade free, he stumbled back as the body crumpled to the ground, the crystal rolling from her grasp into the moonlight. 

Cleaning and sheathing his sword, Chrom approached the gem. Whatever power it had seemed to have quieted, though he could still see the faintest flicker of violet light around it when he crouched, reaching out to lift it in trembling hands--

Pain radiated through him as the orb’s aura blazed anew. A scream tore from his chest, agony searing his senses…

And then the darkness overwhelmed him. 


	3. Grima's Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chrom finds himself back at the Dragon's Table, and sets off to retrieve the next artifact: a set of lightweight armor worn by a fanatic dark mage. Once more, his memories of Robin ease his travels, but a chance encounter with Robin's uncle brings the hard reality crashing back to the fore. Though the man offers what help and guidance he can, the prince must face the fight alone...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's somewhat crazy to think that we're already a quarter of the way through this story. Starting here, we add in a new break format: double lines (=) separate dreams (in italics) from reality. With that in mind, enjoy the next chapter!

_A velvet darkness enveloped him, shifting invisibly on all sides. He felt its soft caress as it carried him along, and did not fight the current, letting it move him where it willed. Perhaps, a distant corner of his mind mused, he should struggle against it, for who could say where the flow would take him? But he felt no threat from the shadows, only a familiar presence…_

_He stirred as a soft sound reached his ears. A distant voice, too faint to make out words...but unmistakable, even still._

_“Robin?”_

===

Chrom opened his eyes, squinting blearily at the colored stones beneath him. Rising to his feet, he moved toward the center of the Dragon’s Table, struggling to piece together what had happened. He remembered fighting the diviner, Afrid, and managing to overcome her...but as soon as he touched the crystal, everything went blank. How had he gotten back here? Had it all been a dream…?

No. As he mounted the steps, a faint glow drew his gaze to the violet sphere now resting atop one of the ornate plinths ringing the altar. If nothing else, he had succeeded in his first task. 

_“Well done, tiny one.”_

The prince shivered as the whisper rumbled through him, looking instinctively around for the source of the presence, though he knew he would not find it. _“To the north lies a great desert, with dunes that flow among my remains. In that place, a set of armor was forged from my bones, light in weight yet stronger than steel. The man who wears it is a cunning, capable mage, but his devotion has been twisted into cruel zealotry. Take it from him and return here; without it, your enemies will have fewer means to defend themselves, affording you yet more opportunities to strike…”_

“I understand,” Chrom said, settling his hand on Falchion’s hilt. The whisper faded to a hum, and finally to silence, as he looked down at the body on the altar. Swallowing back the lump in his throat, he drew in a shaky breath. “Robin?” He was certain that he’d heard the man’s voice in his dream, as sure of it as he was of his own name…

And yet, Robin gave no answer, as still and silent as the stone on which he lay. 

“I’ll be back,” the prince whispered, his vision beginning to blur as he touched the young man’s cold fingers. Retreating from the altar, Chrom hurried out of the chamber, winding his way down the spiral steps and out into the night; when he turned his gaze up to the sky, he saw the moon high overhead, slightly smaller than it had been when last he saw it…

A soft whinny made him turn. “You made it back, too, did you?” he chuckled, stroking Amber’s nose as she paced to his side. “I’m glad. I wasn’t looking forward to trudging through the desert on my own.” The mare snorted, shaking her head as he pulled himself up into the saddle and drew his blade; turning her where the sword’s glow flickered, he touched his heels to her sides, spurring her into a swift canter away from the tower. 

His thoughts once more began to wander as they made their way toward the silver dunes. Not so long ago, he truly would have had to make the journey on foot, slogging through the desert sands, suffering both the day’s heat and the night’s chill in whatever cover he could manage to find or reach. But Robin had changed that, too, hadn’t he? Where others had rued him as a lost cause where horsemanship and mounted combat were concerned, Robin had never lost faith or heart -- and that had carried him further than even he could have imagined. 

/////

“Are you certain this is a wise decision, Milord?”

“What’s wrong with it?” Chrom asked, tightening the saddle cinch and testing to be sure it was secure. 

“Mounted combat is not simply a matter of riding off into battle with sword in hand. It requires dedicated practice--"

“All the more reason to train, right?” the prince interrupted, gripping the saddle and preparing to pull himself up--

“Good afternoon, Prince Chrom.”

His head shot up, a smile breaking across his face as he caught sight of Robin's pale, unkempt hair. “How are you today?” he asked as the young man approached the corral fence. 

“I’m quite fine,” Robin beamed. “I must thank you again for your hospitality and kindness.”

“No need,” the prince insisted, moving to lean against the nearest rail. “Are you settling in alright?”

“I think so,” the Plegian nodded. “Things are different here than in Plegia. It takes some getting used to.”

“But no trouble, I hope?” Chrom pressed.

“Everyone has been very kind,” Robin assured him. “One of the pegasus knights that escorted me from the border -- Sumia, I think? -- loaned me several books to see me through the evenings. I’ll need to find her soon for more, they’re too good to put down!” The young man’s laughter drew a warm smile across the prince’s face, his concerns subsiding in the face of that cheer. “And the mage you introduced me to, Miriel, is absolutely incredible! She easily rivals some of Plegia’s most learned academics in science and magical studies -- we nearly missed supper yesterday, we were so deep in conversation. I was actually supposed to meet her at the garrison to continue where we left off, but I heard she was called away to other duties.”

“A group of rogues has been plaguing a nearby town,” the prince agreed. “She went off with a few of the other Shepherds to help put a stop to them.”

“Well, that is a fine reason to delay our talk,” Robin mused. “I do hope her endeavors go smoothly, and that no one is harmed or lost."

“As do we all,” Frederick agreed brusquely.

Chrom ignored the interruption, gesturing behind him at the corral. “That’s actually what this is for. It’s not just near Ylisstol: there have been reports arriving from all over the halidom, and the guard just can’t handle all the brigands alone. The Shepherds do what they can, but as captain, I thought working on my mounted combat might help us respond faster, and to requests for aid from the far corners of Ylisse.”

“That’s quite noble of you,” the young man smiled. “How is your training going?”

The prince rubbed the back of his neck, feeling uncomfortably self-conscious. “I’ve had better luck with other endeavors.”

“Well, time spent practicing is never wasted,” Robin assured him. “I don’t mean to keep you from it.”

Before Chrom could respond, the great knight cleared his throat. “Speaking of, if Milord is quite determined to see this training through, he should consider fetching his horse.”

The prince looked up to find the animal on the far side of the corral, stretching its neck over the fence to nip at a straw-filled training dummy. Cursing under his breath (and feeling his cheeks warm at the Plegian’s amused chuckle), he hurried to retrieve his mount, dragging it away from its snack and pulling himself up into the saddle. He took a moment to get comfortable, glancing over at Robin and praying to Naga that he wouldn't make any more a fool of himself in front of their guest -- but the young man only smiled back at him as Frederick clanked his way over, and the prince had to grudgingly tear his attention away to listen to the great knight’s words. 

“I feel it necessary to remind you that mounted combat bears little resemblance to riding for sport. While you may be an able enough horseman on the hunt, that will only serve you so well in battle. There will be no hounds to corner or incapacitate your enemy as they would a quarry. You must be constantly vigilant, and with the chaos of battle you will be forced to react rapidly to threats on all sides. A position on horseback may aid you against foes on foot, but against cavalry or airborne combatants, you will have far less of an advantage--"

“Frederick. Could we skip the lecture and start the actual lesson?”

The great knight huffed but offered a curt nod, holding a blunted practice sword out to the prince. “Take up your blade and test your swing. I'll fetch a training dummy -- please take care not to break it.”

Chrom felt his brow furrow at the jab, though a quick glance to the edge of the corral revealed that Robin had left before hearing it. Small favors, he supposed…though he rather wished he could have at least said goodbye. Taking the blade in hand, he gave it an experimental swing; the odd angle felt awkward even before the horse beneath him shifted in place, and when he reached for the reins he found the one-handed grip more uncomfortable still. Gods, Sully made it look so easy…

“Here you are, Milord,” Frederick called, planting a wooden figure in the center of the ring. “To begin, simply stop your horse beside the target and practice striking. Familiarize yourself with the basic motion first, and we can progress from there.”

Spurring his mount forward, the prince struggled to coax it over to the dummy with only one hand. It proved more difficult than he'd expected, and for a few moments the horse wove somewhat drunkenly around the corral while Chrom tried to turn it in the right direction. But he did, eventually, manage to maneuver them alongside the target, and as he tugged back to halt their progress, he lifted his blade and gave the dummy a sound blow to the head--

His horse shied away from the noise, and the prince fumbled his sword as he reached for the reins. Cursing under his breath, he dismounted, refusing to look at the great knight even as he heard the man's long-suffering sigh. “Milord, I really don't think it necessary for you to do this--"

“Having some trouble?”

Robin's voice caught him completely off-guard. Looking up, he felt some small measure of his frustration ease as the Plegian’s smile met him…and he quickly forgot the rest of it once the horse behind Robin caught his attention. The dark-maned bay was smaller than any Ylissean breed he'd ever laid eyes on, seeming somehow delicate as it stretched its neck out to sniff Chrom's shoulder. “Is this…your horse?” he ventured, reaching up to stroke its neck. 

“She is,” the young man agreed. “Her name is…well, it translates to something like ‘Amber Moon,’ but she responds to just Amber.” There was a curious accent to his pronunciation, not quite like the Ylissean word but easy enough to recognize. The mare, meanwhile, snorted lightly and began to nose at the Plegian’s pale hair. “I do hope I'm not interrupting, but I thought that...perhaps I could help a bit. It seems the very least I can do, after how kind you've been…”

Frederick cleared his throat. “That will not be necessary--"

“I could use a hand,” Chrom cut in. 

The young man's apologetic look immediately brightened. Ducking out from under the bay’s nuzzling, he passed her reins off to the prince. “Here.”

“...wait. What?” Chrom cast a bewildered look between horse and rider, his confusion only mounting at Robin's obvious enthusiasm. 

“Is your horse trained for combat?” the young man asked. 

“...no,” the prince confessed. “There aren’t enough to spare right now, so…”

“Amber is,” the Plegian smiled.

“And why is that?” Frederick asked, moving protectively to Chrom's side.

“Because she had to be,” Robin replied quietly; though his smile did not change, the prince saw something sad and haunted overwhelm the cheer in the young man's eyes. 

If the great knight noticed, he did not show it, instead folding his arms behind him as he straightened his back. “What cause would a diplomat have for bringing a horse trained for war on a peaceful mission--”

“That's enough, Frederick,” Chrom snapped.

“Milord--"

“ _Frederick._ ”

His voice was sharper than he'd intended. But it served to silence the great knight, who bowed his head without further comment. Reaching out, the prince gently touched Robin's shoulder, offering a reassuring smile as the young man met his eye. “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate it.” As he moved to mount the bay, he paused to marvel at how different her tack looked compared to what Ylissean horses wore -- but in the next moment, he levered himself up into the saddle.

The mare stood quietly while he tested his swing again. Gathering the reins, he wondered briefly over the length and how to best guide her--

“No need to pull,” Robin remarked. “Just let them touch her neck on the side you want her to go.”

Curious, Chrom drew the reins to one side -- and laughed as the mare turned, stepping lightly forward as his heels touched her sides. “Any chance I can keep her?” 

“I could part with her for training,” the Plegian chuckled, “but you’d be hard-pressed to make her stay. I helped raise her from a foal, and trained her from a filly. Isn’t that right, Amber?”

The bay gave a light whicker, nuzzling the hand Robin held out to her. Grinning, Chrom turned to the great knight, briefly resting the training sword across his thigh. “Why don’t you take a break? I’ll probably be at this a while.”

“That’s quite alright, Milord--”

“Frederick. Relax,” he ordered, desperately willing the man to back off even slightly. And though the great knight cast another suspicious glance toward the Plegian, he at last gave a slight bow, clanking his way toward the edge of the ring to watch. 

“I don’t think he much cares for me,” Robin murmured. 

“Don’t worry about Frederick,” the prince reassured him. “He’s...more or less my bodyguard. It’s his job to be wary.” Chrom just wished he wouldn’t take it quite so far. 

The young man made a soft sound, moving toward the center of the ring. Spurring the mare on, the prince managed to reach the dummy with significantly less difficulty, stopping her with a light pull on the reins; even as he struck a ringing blow to the wooden figure, Amber barely shifted her stance. “She really is well-trained, isn’t she?” the prince mused. 

“Most horses get at least some training nowadays,” Robin explained, pacing idly as Chrom continued to practice his swing. “As do most Plegians. It’s never certain what you’ll encounter on the roads, after all, and travelers need to be able to defend themselves or flee to safety.”

The prince paused, looking speculatively at the young man. “Does that mean you can fight on horseback?” 

“I’m more a mage than a swordsman,” he shrugged. “But yes, I’m capable enough to get through a mounted engagement.”

Chrom grinned, shifting backward to sit behind the saddle. “Show me.”

“I think your warden would object--”

“It’s part of training,” the prince insisted. “The more tricks I can see first-hand, the better off I’ll be. I learn better by example than by lecture, anyway.”

Robin cast an uncertain glance toward the great knight at the fence...but finally sighed, a slight smile tugging at his expression. “Alright. If you insist, Prince Chrom.”

“Just Chrom is fine,” he reminded the Plegian as Robin pulled himself up into the saddle. He settled quickly and comfortably onto the mare’s back -- and she, in turn, perked instantly as he gathered the reins in one hand, withdrawing a book from his coat with the other and holding it open against his arm. A slight click of his tongue and the horse began to move, her high steps becoming a light trot that wheeled them out toward the edges of the corral. 

The young man glanced over his shoulder, and the prince barely had time to register his mischievous grin before Robin shifted his weight back, drawing the reins toward the fence alongside them. The mare came to an abrupt halt, wheeling away from the rails and taking off back the way they’d come at the same swift trot. “Show-off,” Chrom laughed. 

“Well, you _did_ say you wanted to see tricks,” the Plegian chuckled. Another subtle shift of his arm and the bay spiraled closer to the dummy; as Robin held the tome up, the prince felt electric energy hum across his skin, golden light swirling around them into arcane runes that crackled with lightning -- and as they sped past the target, the young man snapped his book shut, sending the spell arcing high through the air to strike the wooden figure, reducing it to little more than a charred log. 

Frederick’s shout made them both shrink. “Perhaps I overdid it a bit,” Robin chuckled weakly, reining his mare in. 

“I’d say it was worth it,” the prince replied, winking as the young man glanced back at him. At least to Chrom, Robin’s smile certainly was. 

/////

Long as the nights were becoming, Chrom was still unable to navigate the dunes before sunrise. As the desert began to bake under the sun, he and Amber took refuge in the shadow of a towering stone mesa to wait out the hottest part of the day...though as the hours wore by, Chrom wondered idly if it was not rock but bone that sheltered them -- after all, the voice at the Dragon’s Table had mentioned remains.

Once the light began to dim, they set out again, picking their way through the shadowed valleys in pursuit of what drew Falchion’s glow. The canyon eventually widened, the ridges on either side sloping down toward an oasis ringed by dense scrub and a scattering of trees, and as the sun at last sank below the tops of the dunes the prince dismounted, leading the mare to the edge of the pond. Sheathing his sword, he knelt beside her, cupping his hands and splashing the water across his face and neck before taking a long, grateful drink. Gods, what a relief…

“I'd imagine that would feel nice, after a long day in the desert.”

Chrom started at the unexpected call, his hand touching his sword hilt even as a warm laugh sounded nearby. “No need to worry, traveler: I'm neither rogue nor Ylissean, come to cut your purse or throat. I’m just here for some water, as you are.”

In the last faint light of day, the prince looked up at the man approaching along the bank…and felt his chest constrict, crushing the breath from his lungs in a ragged sob. “Robin?”

The man stopped in his tracks. And the longer Chrom looked, the more he realized he was mistaken: the pale hair and well-tanned features were familiar, but not the same, the high cheekbones too sharp, the chin too narrow… “My apologies,” he choked out through another rush of grief. “I mistook you for--"

“You know my nephew?”

The prince nodded, dreading the question he knew would follow as the man hurried closer. “Have you heard any news of him? I’ve not seen him in the better part of a year -- he visited on his way to the border, and we've been hoping he might be back in time for Grima's Night...did you come from the capital, perchance? Most travelers stop by the villages if they come from the north or east, but it's been some time since we had a visitor from afar.” 

Chrom shook his head as Robin’s uncle crouched beside him, watching the Plegian’s smile turn to mild confusion as he looked more closely at the prince. “...you’re Ylissean?” Chrom nodded, running a hand through his damp hair. “Please forgive me, I meant no offense with my earlier remark,” the man apologized.

“It's alright,” the prince murmured. “I don't blame you.”

“...you met Robin, though?” the man ventured. “Is he alright? Do you know where he is?”

Chrom drew in an unsteady breath, blinking to clear his vision as his eyes began to burn. “He’s at the Dragon’s Table.”

Robin’s uncle froze. And then he began to tremble, lifting a hand to touch his forehead, his eyes, and his breast in quick succession before twisting his fingers in his robe. “How did this happen?” he whispered. “He was our hope, our peace -- how could we have lost him, how could we…”

“He was taken,” Chrom whispered, touching Falchion’s pommel with a shaking hand. “And I couldn’t stop it.”

Silence settled over the oasis. The prince stared at the water, watching the rising moon’s light ripple across the surface. “Are you Chrom?” the man asked softly. “He wrote about young man with Naga’s brand by that name…”

“I am,” the prince nodded. “I’m...guessing you’re his Uncle Jay. He talked about you. He missed you, and his cousins, and...he wanted to come home for Grima’s Night, to be with family…”

“Thank you for bringing him back to us,” the man murmured, reaching out to touch Chrom’s shaking shoulder. “I...I remember when he was born -- he was so small when my sister brought him to us, so soft...I could barely believe that he was Grima’s Heart. But with every year that passed, he grew more clever, more swift, more kind...and I saw the shape of who he would become, and I knew that it was not by chance that he bore the brand. I’d hoped...when he left, I prayed that he would be able to find the peace he sought, and that I could be there to welcome him back on his return, sit beside him once again come Grima’s Night...I did not want to think that he would be part of the host of spirits, when that night came…”

“He may not have to be,” Chrom said, sniffling thickly as he dried his eyes. “I’m looking for a dark mage with armor carved from bone. Have you seen anyone pass through lately like that?”

Jay frowned, folding his hands against his chin. “Of late, there has been a dark mage lurking about -- part of the upper ranks of the Grimleal hierarchy, so he claimed when he swept through demanding offerings to sustain him and his following on their ‘holy mission.’ Chalard, I think his name was -- what business do you have with him?”

“The armor was part of Grima, once,” the prince explained. “It has some of Grima’s power -- with it, Robin can come back…”

The man beside him reached out, laying a steady hand on Chrom’s shoulder. “I know that grief is hard to bear,” he murmured, “but the pain will ease in time, if you let it. Delving into magic like that...it will not help: even the most powerful magics cannot properly call a soul back to flesh, or even give it more than a pale half-existence. True life cannot be restored to the dead, no matter how much we might will it.”

The prince shook his head, dredging up a faint smile. “But you said yourself that he’s Grima’s Heart: it wasn’t by chance that he was born with the brand. If souls can return on Grima’s Night...perhaps Robin’s can return to his body, when Grima’s power is greatest.”

“...he told you that much, did he?” Jay chuckled. “And you took it to heart, no less. No wonder he was so taken with you.” Sighing to himself, Robin’s uncle levered himself to his feet, dusting sand from his clothes and offering his hand to Chrom. “If you’re determined to see this through, then I can at least show you where Chalard has made his camp.”

“Thank you,” the prince said, clasping the man’s wrist and rising to his feet. Amber whickered softly as Chrom pulled himself up into the saddle, and as Jay moved into the dunes beyond the oasis she followed, easily keeping pace alongside him. “Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”

“Well, he’s a dark mage, as you already know,” the Plegian replied. “It would be best to attack from close range to avoid his magic...though that might be difficult, if he sees you coming. Perhaps a bow could take care of him, if you aim well, or a spell might at least distract him long enough for you to get within range…”

“I’m afraid all I have is my sword,” the prince admitted. “And even if I did have a tome, I don’t have the talent for magic to make use of it.” 

“That would be a problem, wouldn’t it?” the man muttered, digging through the pouches at his side and offering something up to Chrom. “Here. This might help at least a bit.”

“What is it?” the prince asked, accepting what appeared to be a stone tile the size of his hand. Tilting it into the moonlight, he wondered at the delicate etchings engraved across its surface. 

“It’s a silencing rune,” Jay replied. “It draws magic to it, nullifying a spell before it can be successfully cast. It’s only good at close range, though, and only during the casting: once the magic flies, you’ll only have your own wits to save you.”

Chrom smiled gratefully, tucking the stone into his pocket. “Thank you. I’ll do my best to put it to good use.”

They walked in silence as the moon continued its ascent, until finally the Plegian came to a stop, pointing to the faint glow of torchlight beyond the next ridge of dunes. “That’s where his band has been camped of late. Take care, and be safe,” he added, gently patting Amber’s neck. 

“We’ll do our best,” the prince promised. Bowing slightly, Robin’s uncle offered a final smile before moving down the far side of the dune; gently touching his heels to Amber’s sides, Chrom coaxed her into the valley leading toward the dark mage’s camp. As they reached the bottom, he dismounted, stroking the mare’s nose and bidding her quietly to stay before trudging up the side of the next dune. In spite of the slow progress, sliding back a step for every two advanced, he finally reached the crest; moving warily to the edge, he peered down toward the torchlit camp, scanning the bone and hide tents for any sign of the mage he sought. 

As his hand brushed past his side, he felt outline of the tile in his pocket. Withdrawing it carefully, he ran his thumb across the engravings along its edge: it would be difficult (and unwise) to attempt a head-on assault...but if he could turn the situation to his favor -- 

A violet glow blazed in front of him. Chrom reeled back, the loose sand giving way and sending him tumbling down the far slope. As he finally skidded to a stop at the bottom, he heard Amber’s nervous whinny approach and stumbled to his feet in time to catch her reins; pulling himself up into the saddle, he unsheathed Falchion and lifted it high, watching the bright glow pulse and flicker along the blade as whatever drew it moved swiftly toward the top of the ridge. The prince spurred the mare on, and she began to cut her way up the dune, the loose footing barely slowing her pace -- and as he shifted his weight back, drawing the reins toward the valley, she reared and wheeled toward the crest of the dune, cantering toward the peak as a silhouette blocked out the stars. 

Chrom saw the moonlight gleam over the bleached skull helm, glittering off gilt horns as the first motes of golden light sparked against the dark like wayward stars. “So you’re the one who attacked the temple,” a rasping voice snarled. “Ylissean dog, I’ll see you bound in chains and laid on the Dragon’s Table as a sacrifice to Grima’s might!!”

As Amber cleared the top of the dune, the golden light in the air faded, the half-formed runes disintegrating as they fell toward the sand. “What!?” the mage balked, scrambling away from the horse and rider bearing down on him. Tightening his grip on Falchion’s hilt, Chrom pulled back on the reins, bringing them to an abrupt halt -- and as another arcane circle began to twist around the cloaked figure, the prince slashed through the high collar, painting a black arc across the silver sands. 

The dark mage crumpled, his breath rattling sickeningly for another moment before silence fell once more across the desert. Cleaning and sheathing his sword before dismounting, Chrom patted Amber’s neck, moving toward the body lying in the sand; another pace further on, he saw the tablet he’d left behind when he forfeit the high ground, and gave in to the faint smile that tugged at his lips. He hoped that Robin would be proud to see how far the prince had come, once he returned. 

Kneeling beside the body, Chrom pulled the gold-trimmed cloak aside. His strike had been perhaps as much luck as skill, skirting just above the gorget that might have otherwise deflected the blow; removing it swiftly, he set the armor aside, making quick work of the bracers, armlets, and ribbed chest plate in quick succession. Finally taking hold of the grinning skull helmet, he lifted it free, the soft veils mounted below its horns fluttering in the moonlight--

He convulsed, agony tearing through his every nerve. Choking on a scream, he felt the pain burn through his arms, his chest, his mind...until only darkness remained. 


	4. Grima's Horn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chrom again finds himself back at the Dragon's Table, and sets off to retrieve the next artifact: a lance crafted from Grima's horn, held by a manic berserker. His memories of Robin give him inspiration and heart as he makes his way, enough to stand firm against the desolation of another member of Robin's family. With only his own strength and wit to guide him, though, the trial ahead will prove daunting...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd meant to have this done Wednesday, but then the flashback got a little out of hand. As before, slashes (/) represent flashbacks, while double lines (=) separate dreams (in italics) from reality. I hope you enjoy!

_He recognized this darkness, the subtle flow of shadows that wrapped around him. It was gentle, familiar, a soft embrace that rocked him as it moved toward some unknown destination. He felt no fear here, though he wondered if perhaps he should, for who could say where it would take him…_

_A sound roused him again. A voice, closer now, more distinct, though still too quiet to make out words -- but he swore that he could hear his own name in the echoes as a faded warmth curled around his fingers._

_“Robin? Can you hear me…?”_

===

It was the cold that woke him. Rising slowly from from the polished stones, he looked once more around the Dragon’s Table, moving up the stairs leading to the altar where Robin’s body lay. He still had no memory of how he’d made it back: the mounted fight against the dark mage was clear enough, but after taking hold of the helm, there was...nothing. 

But at least his efforts had not gone to waste: looking around the platform, he saw the armor arrayed atop a dark stone pedestal, the skull helm grinning in the wan moonlight. 

_“Well done, tiny one.”_

He had expected the whisper this time. Yet it still made him tremble as it hummed through his bones, and even knowing he would see nothing, he still glanced once over his shoulder to scan the empty shadows for its source. _“To the northeast lies a mountain range that marks the border between the lands of Naga’s following and my own. In that place a lance is kept, carved from one of my horns and capable of calling forth lightning to strike down distant foes. The man who wields it is talented and quick-witted, but uses those boons to cruel and manipulative ends. Take it from him and return here; without it, your enemies will lose a key means to oppose your quest…”_

“I understand,” Chrom said, his hand falling again to the sword at his side. As silence settled once more over the sanctum, the prince drew an unsteady breath, looking again at the body lying atop the altar…and paused, leaning closer and gently cupping Robin’s cheek in his palm. Was it just his imagination, or was there a trace color in his face, fighting back the deathly pall? “Robin?” he called, his voice sounding strained even in his own ears. “Please…”

But his desperate plea fell on deaf ears: the young man did not stir, and no warmth met his touch. 

Swallowing back the lump in his throat, Chrom gently smoothed the stray locks of hair peeking out from under Robin’s hood. “You’ll be alright,” he promised. “I’ll be back soon.” Turning away as his eyes began to burn, the prince left the quiet rotunda, making his way down the spiral stair to the base of the tower; moving out into the moonlight, he heard Amber whicker in greeting, her hooves clicking on the cobbled path leading toward the desert sands. “I’m glad you made it,” he smiled, stroking her nose as she stopped before him. “I couldn’t do this without you.”

The mare snorted lightly, snuffling at his hair as he moved to pull himself up into the saddle. Withdrawing Falchion again, he raised it high, touching his heels to the horse’s sides and turning her where the pale glow pointed, toward the dunes and the mountains beyond. As the spire shrank into the dark behind them, his mind drifted to what lay ahead. Knowing how his enemy was armed only went so far: he knew what his foe’s lance was capable of...but he could only guess at how the man would put it to use. 

That was where Robin had excelled. Among all his talents, his intuition had shone especially bright. He’d saved Chrom more than once with it -- both from his foes and from himself...and the prince prayed that those lessons would be enough to see him through. 

/////

“Here we are: Breakneck Pass,” Chrom announced, reining his horse in at the bottom of the path leading into the canyon. 

“Quite the imposing name,” Robin remarked.

“The official name is Prism Valley, for the river that runs through it from the base of Mount Prism. It’s a dangerous route, though -- all narrow switchback trails cut into the side of the mountains -- so the locals gave it something more…fitting.” The prince glanced over at the pale-haired young man, fidgeting nervously in his saddle as Robin met his eye. “You don't have to do this, you know,” he said again. 

“I know,” the man smiled. “But I want to help. It’s the least I can do, after you offered to show me more of the halidom.”

Chrom didn't quite have the heart to confess the selfish motives behind that. When reports of a particularly troublesome band of rogues plaguing Breakneck Pass had arrived in Ylisstol, the prince had been hesitant to leave their foreign guest behind: the Exalt’s cruel response to the young man's plea for peace still haunted Chrom, and he worried what might happen to the Plegian if he stayed in the capital while the Shepherds were elsewhere. Emmeryn must have had the same reservations, since it had been her suggestion to invite Robin to join them and give him a glimpse of the greater halidom -- an offer Chrom hadn't hesitated to put forth, and one the young man had enthusiastically agreed to.

He had not, however, expected that Robin would want to join in solving the problem that called them out in the first place. “You're sure you don't want to head back to town? Lissa can show you around -- she’s been excited about touring the market…”

“I'm sure that a market trip will be much more pleasant if we don't have to worry about how you fare,” the young man chuckled. 

“I'm more worried about you,” Chrom protested. “I don't want you to get hurt.”

Robin smiled gently, reaching out to pat the prince's shoulder. “I promise to stay behind the front lines with my tome should a fight break out, if that will ease your mind, Prince Chrom.”

“It would,” he admitted. “And just Chrom is fine, you know.”

“I don't think your warden approves of such familiarity,” the Plegian murmured, glancing over his shoulder at the great knight little more than a pace behind. The prince sighed and shook his head, looking over the rest of their band to be sure everyone was still accounted for before spurring his horse forward into the shadowed valley. 

The mounted caravan moved in silence for a time, every member alert to any sign of the rogues that prowled the pass. But as the trails cut into the cliff face narrowed, leaving only room enough for two horses to comfortably walk abreast, a prickle of unease raised the hairs on the back of his neck. The reports had been vague at best, and the testimony of the townsfolk less certain still, but they couldn't have missed their targets…

He heard Robin make a small, thoughtful sound behind him. “No wonder these brigands have proven so troublesome.”

“Why's that?” Chrom asked distractedly. 

“It appears they have a few wyverns.”

The prince pulled back hard on the reins, bringing the party to an abrupt stop. Turning in the saddle to look at the Plegian, his gaze followed the young man's gesture up along the cliffs…and a low oath slipped from his lips as a red patch of what he'd taken for stone moved in the light. “How did they manage that?” he hissed, picking out three more as he continued to stare at the rocks above. 

“Odds are good they poached them from a battlefield,” Robin murmured. “They look to be Plegian stock, though at this distance it's hard to be certain. Best keep close to the wall, they tend to knock enemies off steep drops given an opportunity.”

As though on cue, one of the dragons stretched its wings and bellowed down at them. The horses began to prance nervously, even as their riders attempted to settle them with varying degrees of success (though Robin’s mare seemed entirely unconcerned by the monsters overhead). Frederick and Sully managed to quiet their mounts after a few moments, and Maribelle at least succeeded in coaxing her pony closer to the canyon wall -- but Stahl’s mare only shied as the cavalier tried to calm her, tossing her head and backing down the trail while Chrom’s own horse stamped in place. Two more wyverns added their voices to the screeching from overhead, and Stahl’s mount wheeled in a panic, bolting down the trail as her rider jumped clear of the saddle; the prince was not quite so lucky as his own horse followed, managing little more than an awkward tumble and falling hard into the dirt.

As he picked himself up, he heard hoofbeats pacing toward him. “Are you alright?” Robin asked, reaching out a gloved hand. 

“I’ve been better,” Chrom grumbled, grasping the young man’s wrist and hauling himself up behind the saddle. “I don’t think anything’s broken, though.”

“That’s a relief.” Robin smiled back at him, turning Amber easily back down the trail and gesturing up the cliffs as the dragons gave another cry. “I’m beginning to think they might have the wyverns bound. I’d have expected them to be airborne by now.”

“So what’s that mean for us?” Sully demanded, dragging Stahl up behind her and following the bay’s lead further down the trail. 

“Likely it means they can’t control them,” the Plegian replied. “In order to keep them, they tie them down when they’re not actively using them. The poor things must be hungry, to cry like that.”

A coarse shout echoed around the bend ahead. “Pipe down, you overgrown lizards! You’ll get yours soon’s another caravan comes through.” 

Raising a hand to call a halt, the prince slipped to the ground, creeping forward to peer around the next sharp turn. The bandit camp lay at the center of an open plateau, a collection of rough canvas tents and crude structures made from wood panels scavenged from wagons. Along the cliff face, a few flimsy-looking rope ladders led to a higher outcrop where a pair of lookouts dozed, and which Chrom could guess wrapped around to where the wyverns were tied. 

“So what’s the plan?” Robin asked softly, crouching beside the prince and surveying the camp. 

“We put a stop to them,” Chrom replied. 

“Well, yes, but how?”

“...with our weapons?” The prince glanced down at the young man, puzzled by the rather obvious question. 

“...please tell me that there’s more to your strategy than ‘rush in with weapons drawn,’” the Plegian said, a curiously pleading note in his voice. Chrom shrugged, and Robin buried his face in his hands. “Gods give me strength,” he muttered, voice muffled in his gloves -- before lifting his head, pressing his hands together, and breathing a sharp sigh. “Alright. Forgive me if I overstep my bounds, but I rather think we can do better than that. I counted four wyverns, and…” he paused, looking out over the camp again before continuing, “fifteen bandits -- mostly axe-wielders, plus a handful of myrmidons -- plus the lookouts armed with bows on the high ledges to each side, though I’d be surprised if there weren’t more men in those caves.”

The prince leaned out for another look. He hadn’t noticed the caves at all, but sure enough, there were a few dark openings in the rock behind the camp. “Unfortunately, the trail beyond that bend is narrow and well exposed, meaning that even with horses we’ll have some difficulty crossing the gap without being spotted by either the scouts or someone in the camp proper. My horse can likely cover the distance fastest, even at its narrowest point, and in the absence of an archer a tome should be able to take down the lookout, preventing rapid response from the wyverns and otherwise handling any foes that notice our advance. I’m happy to take the lead, but since that will leave me alone and exposed once the trail widens onto the platform, I’d prefer to have someone with me to help hold off the rest of the camp while the other horses catch up.”

“I’ll go,” Chrom offered. 

“Milord, that hardly seems wise--”

“I can ride in front,” he added, ignoring Frederick entirely. 

“That seems extremely ill-advised, milord--”

“You have been doing quite well with Amber,” Robin mused. “It’s a rather riskier scenario for testing your skills than I’d prefer, but I also promised to keep behind the front lines, so…”

As the great knight continued to protest, the Plegian assessed the rest of their group, raising his gold-trimmed hood and pulling himself up behind his mare’s saddle. “Sully, you and Stahl follow behind us as the first wave of reinforcements; Lissa, stay with Frederick and take up the third position, we'll need you to handle first aid while Frederick provides cover; Maribelle, you and Ricken bring up the rear -- wind magic may have a smaller range where it’s fully effective, but a gust can still throw an enemy off-balance even from a distance, so don’t hesitate to provide assistance where necessary on your way across.” He paused as he met the prince’s awestruck stare, a blush of color darkening his tanned face. “D-does that sound amenable to you, Prince Chrom?” he added shyly. 

“That all sounds amazing,” the prince replied, pulling himself up into the saddle. “Does everyone have their orders?” As the rest of the Shepherds nodded, Chrom turned Amber easily toward the bend, glancing over his shoulder as Robin withdrew his tome. “You might want to hang on -- that first turn’s pretty sharp.” The young man nodded, slipping his arm around the prince’s waist; sitting up just a bit straighter, Chrom drew his silver sword and touched his heels to the mare’s sides, spurring her into a swift trot as they rounded the bend, then to a full gallop along the narrow trail, the clatter of her hoofbeats and those of the Ylissean horses behind her echoing across the canyon walls. 

He saw the lookout above scramble for his bow in the same instant that the hum of magic swirled around him, electric energy tingling across his skin as Robin’s spell arced high overhead to strike the enemy down. If the sound of the Shepherds’ horses hadn’t been enough to catch the brigands’ attention, though, the crash of thunder certainly was: the rogues scrambled from their posts, snatching for whatever weapons they could find. Rounding the final corner at just shy of a canter, the mare lunged through the disordered troop, scattering them even as Chrom’s blade cut down the nearest foe and another bolt of magic soared high to skew the other lookout’s aim. 

“Comin’ through!!” Sully shouted. The prince had just enough time to wheel Amber out of the way before the cavalier’s stallion crashed through the ranks, her lance and Stahl’s sword flashing as they struck and parried enemy blows. Robin’s next spell sent a myrmidon flying before he could slash at the riders, while Chrom spurred the mare forward to cut down the rogue making his way toward the ladder on the cliff face. So far, surprisingly, so good: in spite of their small numbers, their coordination had given them an early edge, and already half the band had been disarmed or otherwise incapacitated--

“Look out!”

He barely had time to process Robin’s shout before he was tackled from the saddle, an instant before something crackled overhead that singed the back of his neck. “What in Naga’s name…?”

“I will admit, I did not expect them to have mages on hand,” the Plegian muttered, scrambling to his feet and offering his hand to the prince. “Are you alright?”

“I’ve been worse,” Chrom muttered, accepting Robin’s hand and rising to his feet just in time to dodge another blast of flame. Readying his blade, he shifted into a striking stance--

“Do that and you’re going to end up as charcoal,” the Plegian warned, grabbing the prince’s arm and pulling him behind the cover of a large stone as a golden ring formed around the enemy spellcaster. 

“What’s the plan, then?” Chrom asked, ducking instinctively as the fireball soared low over their cover and crashed to the dirt several paces on, scattering embers in all directions. 

“Mages are rarely more than lightly armored,” Robin muttered, glancing around the boulder. “It’s getting close that’s difficult. The best strategy is often to trick them: draw their attack, feint, and strike them down before they can recover. I can provide cover fire, but my spells likely won't be able to incapacitate him.”

“Leave it to me, then,” Chrom grinned. Tightening his grip on his weapon, he felt the familiar tingle of electric energy along his skin -- and as the thunderbolt arced through the air, the prince charged, keeping a wary eye on the enemy spellcaster. He saw the golden rings form, felt the heat rise as flames danced across the runes…and as the fireball flew, he ducked aside and continued his advance, slashing neatly through the mage’s tome as the man attempted to retreat. 

“I yield!” the rogue whimpered, lifting his empty hands as Chrom leveled the tip of his sword at the man's chest. A quick glance around the platform confirmed that the rest of the bandits had likewise discarded their weapons (or had them removed), and the Shepherds had begun to round them up for the march back to town; nodding firmly, the prince withdrew his blade, cleaning the silver edge and sheathing it at his side while Frederick moved to escort the mage to the rest of the troop. 

Moving warily through the caves in search of any more hidden foes, Chrom puzzled over the loot stashed within: some gold, a meager handful of gems…but mostly barrels of foodstuffs, fresh and preserved, and crates of cloth. “Not what I expected,” he muttered as Robin moved to join him. 

“Desperation can drive men to terrible acts,” the Plegian mused. “And war leads to widespread desperation.”

The prince frowned as the young man gathered a sling of fat hares and left the cavern. Following after him, Chrom paused nervously at the foot of the ladder leading to the high outcrop as Robin began to climb, praying he wouldn't fall…and finally making his own ascent only once he was certain the young man had reached solid ground. 

“You didn't have to come,” the Plegian chuckled as the prince hauled himself over the ledge. 

“What if there are more bandits up here?” Chrom protested, gratefully accepting the hand Robin offered to help him up. “I thought you might need someone to watch your back.”

“That's very considerate of you,” the young man grinned. As they rounded the bend, the prince saw the wyverns turn toward them, mantling their wings and lowering their heads threateningly…but none of them moved from their places. “It's alright,” Robin called softly, holding his hands up away from his body. “We're not here to hurt you.”

The nearest dragon growled, snapping at the air and lifting its wings higher. “Are you sure about this?” the prince hissed. 

“We can't just leave them. They'd starve, bound as they are,” the young man replied, pointing to the iron manacles chaining the wyverns to the ledge. “I'm sure you just want to go home. Easy, now…”

He held a gloved hand out before him, approaching one slow pace at a time. The dragon's growl subsided, replaced by a low huffing as it sniffed at Robin's robes...and then it settled with a soft croon, tucking its wings and relaxing its stance to allow him near. “How did you do that?” Chrom asked, crouching warily and fighting with the heavy steel bonds.

“They're Plegian stock,” Robin replied, stroking the beast’s brow and horns. “They're all trained the same way. I liked to watch, when I had the time -- I'm glad I still remember a few things.”

As the manacle broke open, the dragon shifted, moving its leg experimentally before backing slowly toward the cliff edge, giving the men room to pass. “Why isn't it taking off?” the prince muttered, glancing back as he fought with the next brace to see the wyvern watching them.

“They're communal. They'll wait and leave together.” Sure enough, the second dragon joined the first on the ledge, followed by the third and fourth as Chrom broke the chains that held them. “Alright, now,” the young man called, unslinging the rabbits and tossing one to each of the waiting dragons who devoured them in a single gulp, bones and all. “Fly home. Be careful.”

With an ear-splitting shriek the beasts turned and dove from the ledge, soaring out of sight through the valley. “...was that a good idea?” the prince asked. “What if they attack a village, or travellers? Or livestock?”

“They’re trained not to attack humans or horses unless they have a rider’s command,” Robin replied. “So the only thing to worry about might be goats. Do you have many goats in Ylisse?”

“I think it's mostly hogs and cows.”

“Things should be fine, then.”

Frederick swooped in to lecture his charge as soon as Chrom returned to camp; the prince, meanwhile, tuned the majority of it out, pulling himself up behind Amber's saddle and helping the Plegian up before him. With the bandits bound in a line between the great knight’s destrier at the fore and Sully's stallion at the rear, the bay led the way out of the valley and back to the nearest village -- where, to their surprise, they found Stahl’s and Chrom’s horses corralled at the edge of town. The residents greeted the Shepherds with no small amount of fanfare, explaining even as they saw to the rogues’ detainment that they'd been concerned when the animals arrived without riders, and still moreso when a flight of dragons soared overhead; but with the prince and his company safely accounted for, the village headman insisted that they stay, rest, and eat well before making their way back to the capital. 

With sunset already upon them, Frederick grudgingly consented to the offer. The townsfolk eagerly escorted them to the local tavern, and soon enough the Shepherds were carousing over dark stout and roast venison, recounting the day's excitement with increasingly embellished drama and action. 

Chancing a glance at the Plegian beside him, Chrom was surprised to find his pint untouched. Laying a hand gently on Robin's shoulder to draw his attention, the prince gestured to his drink. “Is everything alright?”

“Oh! Yes, don't worry,” the young man laughed, his voice carrying just enough for Chrom to hear it over the conversations around them. “I just don't drink.”

Without hesitation, the prince raised his hand to catch the tavern keeper’s attention. “Spiced cider, please!” The barman offered a quick nod before setting to work, and Chrom turned his attention back to the man beside him. “Is that a Plegian custom?” he asked, moving the stein down the table (where Sully snatched it up without hesitation).

“Oh, no, it's just me,” Robin smiled. “I never cared for the taste.”

“Try this, then,” he grinned, nodding appreciatively as a woman brought over a heavy mug. He could smell its sharp, sweet tang as he handed it to Robin, who accepted it with a smile and took a careful sip…

“Oh, my -- this is wonderful!” 

The prince beamed, propping his chin in one hand as the young man took a deeper pull. “We do have great apple cider here in Ylisse,” he agreed. “What’s been your favorite thing about the halidom so far?”

Robin set his cup down, licking away the froth clinging to his upper lip. “Let's see...my favorite thing so far about Ylisse...well, the cider has to be near the top of the list now,” he laughed. “But the terrain is lovely, too. It's so green and vibrant!”

“I’ve heard that the lands west of the halidom are harsh,” Chrom offered, sipping his pint. 

“They’re beautiful, too, though,” the Plegian murmured. “The eastern desert sands shine gold with the setting sun and silver beneath the moon, and the western coast has towering cliffs overlooking the ocean and busy harbors with bustling markets full of exotic goods. It’s different from Ylisse, but…still lovely, in its own way.”

The prince had never thought of the halidom’s neighbor as a place of beauty. His father had always made it sound like such a cruel land -- much as he’d made Plegia’s people out to be monsters. But Chrom had seen for himself how wrong those stories were. “I’d like to see it for myself someday,” he decided. 

“I’d love to show it to you,” Robin smiled. 

The prince felt his chest tighten at that simple remark, and swiftly took another gulp of stout to hide his sudden awkwardness. “So...what do you miss most about home?” 

“My family, without a doubt,” the young man sighed, sipping at his own drink. “I’ve never been away so long before.”

“What are they like?” Chrom asked. Hopefully better than his own father…

“Well, my mother’s a priestess, of sorts -- she’s a gifted herbalist and apothecary, and compounds medicines rather than using a staff, since magic tends to be a bit volatile in her hands,” he chuckled. “And there’s my Uncle Mustafa -- he’s a general, very strong but also very kind; his wife, my aunt Shari, crafts talismans and charms for various uses; and their son, my cousin Tezin, just turned eight before I came to Ylisse. There’s also my Uncle Orton, who’s a captain and a deft wyvern handler: he taught me most of what I know about them, which...I’ll have to thank him for, since it came in such handy today. Then there’s my Uncle Jay -- he’s my mother’s brother, and a brilliant craftsman who makes runes for spellbooks; his wife, my aunt Larele, is a weaver who makes beautiful textiles; and their two daughters, my cousins Sparrow and Starling, are five and seven and very playful -- oh, and there’s my grandparents, Piper and Kolur, who make lovely cloaks and robes with Aunt Larele’s cloth...and then there’s my Grandpa Campari, who’s also a general, and he makes little birdhouses when he has time -- oh, and Grandpa Aman, and his sons and daughter--”

“How big is your family?” the prince gaped. 

Robin paused, muttering under his breath and rapidly counting something off on his fingers. “...twenty-five? Thirty? I feel like I’m forgetting someone and I’m sure I’ll feel foolish when I remember, so let’s say thirty--”

“ _Thirty people?_ ” Chrom sputtered.

“Well, we’re not all related by blood,” the Plegian laughed. “Community is important: our dearest friends are like family to us, and we treat one another accordingly. My Uncle Mustafa isn’t related to my mother at all, but they’re very close, and Aunt Shari is my mother’s closest friend, so they became part of our family and I part of theirs. There are friends who are dear enough to me that I think of them as my uncles or aunts or cousins or even siblings.”

“Really?” 

Robin nodded, taking another sip of his cider. “My mother fondly calls my friend Henry her second son, and he’s lived with us for years since he had no family of his own when we met him. I heard that he went off to the fortress on the western coast soon after I left, though -- he’s the most talented dark mage I’ve ever known, very clever and constantly trying new things, and he received an apprenticeship with a sage to hone his talents further. There’s also Gangrel -- my mother teases him and calls him her delinquent son, but I think of him as more of a cousin: he’s passionate, which can be either a good or a bad thing depending on the day, so he needs someone to look after him and keep him on steady course. He was very outspoken against my coming to Ylisse, and I think he still disapproves of my being here, but...”

The young man shrugged, a soft smile curving across his lips. “Let’s see...there’s also Vasto -- he’s one of Gangrel’s friends, technically, but he and his mother both have rather adopted me as their friend: his mother knits some of the finest shawls and scarves I’ve ever seen, and Vasto loves to brag about it. He can be harsh, but he’s only cruel to those who have shown themselves to be spiteful and dishonorable themselves. And there’s Tharja, who is a...a friend,” he decided, looking somewhat awkward. “She can be rather clingy and possessive and has a terrible jealous streak, but she’s good at heart. She has a great talent for magic, herself, particularly scrying and divination, and she was called to a southern temple to apprentice with one of Plegia’s eminent diviners while I was preparing to come to Ylisse.”

“Are there more?” the prince asked curiously.

“Oh, certainly, but I think I’ve spoken at more than enough length already and likely bored you near to sleep,” Robin laughed. “What of your family?” he asked before Chrom could protest. 

“You’ve met them all,” the prince replied. “It’s just me, Emmeryn, and Lissa. Our mother passed away not long after Lissa was born, so it’s been the three of us ever since. And our father,” he added grudgingly. “But Emm is the best sister anybody could ask for: she helped take care of me and Lissa both growing up, and taught us so much...she’s amazing. And even if Lissa can be obnoxious,” he continued as his younger sister leaned in, attracted by Emmeryn’s name, “she’s not _so_ bad, for a delicate princess.”

“Hey! I am _not_ delicate!” she protested, sticking her tongue out at him as she wrapped her arms around their guest’s elbow. “Don’t listen to him, Robin, he doesn’t know _what_ he’s talking about. But holy _wow!_ Horse riding _and_ magic _and_ tactics? Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Make Frederick like me,” the Plegian replied without hesitation. The table erupted in laughter, with the exception of the great knight (who frowned in confusion, having clearly missed the joke) and Robin himself, who simply smiled at Chrom over his cider. 

/////

The trails through the mountains along Plegia's shared border with Ylisse were barely more than goat paths: narrow, winding, and so steep they seemed nearly impassable. But Amber picked her way carefully along them in spite of the difficulties, sure-footed and calm even as rubble clattered down the cliffs around them. With so little room to move and no other tracks apparent, Chrom had long ago sheathed Falchion, simply following the only course available and keeping a wary eye on their surroundings. 

At long last, the thin clouds scudding across the moon parted, illuminating a wide ledge ahead and a broad trail leading down to the canyon floor. Clicking his tongue, the prince coaxed the mare forward, desperate for a reprieve from the stressful passage…

Amber stopped no more than a few steps beyond the edge of the trail, pawing at the loose stones and tossing her head. “What's wrong?” he asked, grasping the reins slightly tighter; he'd rarely seen the mare shy before, and her sudden distress stirred a queasy sense of dread in his stomach. Hesitantly reaching for the sword at his side, he scanned the dark cliffs, the star-strewn sky--

Something moved atop the ridge. 

His fingers tightened on Falchion’s hilt as a wyvern spread its wings, the moon shining dimly through the veined membranes before it dove from its perch and swooped down to land at the center of the platform before them, wings mantled wide enough that one tip nearly brushed the stone wall. It made no sound, though, no bellowing roar, not even a rumbling growl…but as Chrom watched, a figure stood in the saddle on the dragon's back, the axe in his hand gleaming in the moonlight. 

“Hold, Ylissean,” the man called. “What brings you across your borders into Grima's lands?”

“There's a task I must see to,” the prince replied. “I mean no harm to Plegia or her people.”

“How, then, did you come by that horse?”

Chrom's throat tightened painfully as he tensed his grip on the reins. “I'm only borrowing her for a short while,” he explained, his quiet voice echoing across the canyon walls. 

“And her rider?” the man pressed. “Where is he?”

“He's at the Dragon's Table.”

The man stared at him, slumping back down into the wyvern’s saddle. “I told him not to go,” the prince heard him whisper, the sound curiously amplified in the silent canyon. “I told him there was nothing but danger beyond the eastern mountains, but that damned fool of a boy wouldn't listen -- he just gave himself over to the Ylisseans without a thought for the risk…”

Touching his heels to Amber's sides, he coaxed her forward to stand just outside of the dragon's range. Its rider was not a young man, judging from his features, but his thin moustache and dark hair had yet to silver. “Are you Orton?” Chrom ventured. 

The man lifted his head, a puzzled look crossing his face. “How did you…”

“Robin told me about you,” the prince murmured. He’d admittedly taken a bit of a guess, but the well-behaved wyvern had been a giveaway. “How you taught him about wyverns -- it saved us, once…”

Orton laughed, a pained sound verging on a sob. “I shouldn’t be surprised, after all those letters…every month, without fail, that pegasus knight would come tripping up to the border with a stack of them -- the boy was prolific with a quill, I’ll be damned if I know how he did it -- and every time there’d be one for me there among them. And for all that...I never thought he’d speak of me.” The wyvern rider tilted his head back, staring up at the sky with a desolate smile. “That boy was too good for this cruel world. He just kept trying to spread kindness, give it to anyone and everyone, whether they deserved it or not...and all it earned him was an early grave. ...I take it you’re Chrom?” As the prince nodded, the wyvern rider mustered a weary chuckle, tucking his axe out of the way. “That would explain it.”

“Explain what?”

“Why you’re here spreading the word,” Orton replied. “He wrote enough about you. It’s a cold comfort, but...I’m glad that his kindness didn’t all go to waste, east of the border. We’ve lost so many to that bloody Exalt and his damned war, and couldn’t even properly mourn them, after what he did...at least we can grieve for him.”

“You may not have to,” Chrom said softly. “I’m looking for someone: a man wielding a lance that can summon lightning. Do you know where he is?”

The wyvern rider’s expression darkened at the mention. “You must mean Algol,” he growled. “The wretch paraded through some weeks ago, citing a mission for the Grimleal -- not that I’ve seen him do anything but wreak havoc and unsettle the wyverns at all hours with that damnable spear of his. What do you need with him?”

“The lance was made from part of Grima’s remains,” the prince explained. “It contains a part of Grima’s power, so with it, Robin can be brought back…”

Orton only shook his head as Chrom spoke. “You’re a warrior, aren’t you?” he asked, gesturing vaguely to Falchion. “A warrior knows that death is the end: those we strike down on the battlefield won’t rise again, nor will the allies that fall before us. No matter how we might wish it, no matter how many more lives we take in the name of those lost...there is no coming back.”

“I know,” the prince whispered. “But...I can’t just stand by and do _nothing._ If there’s even a _chance_ that this can bring him back, then I’ll do whatever it takes. He didn’t deserve this -- it wasn’t right, it wasn’t _just--_ ”

“There’s nothing just about death,” Orton said. The wyvern made a low sound, moving to the edge of the plateau at its rider’s silent command. “Stay alert: the pass ahead is riddled with caves. It’s hard to say what might be lurking in there.”

“...thank you for the warning,” Chrom called. The man did not look back; the prince only saw him give a slight nod before the dragon spread its wings and slipped into the dark valley beyond the platform, leaving only silence in its wake. Sighing to himself, Chrom touched his heels to Amber’s sides, and she resumed her easy pace across the plateau and down the slope into the canyon below. 

Chrom unsheathed Falchion as they reached the valley floor, its bright glow lighting the way forward where the wan moonlight could not. The sound of the mare’s hoofbeats echoed eerily off the steep walls, seeming to amplify rather than abate as dark openings appeared in the cliffs on either side. Lifting the blade higher, he tried to pinpoint which cavern drew Falchion’s fire, following the subtle flicker up into the dark--

A sudden rumble of thunder rolled through the canyon. Amber reared, shrieking as Chrom ducked low over her back and bolting an instant before lightning scorched the earth where she had stood. Cursing under his breath, the prince scanned the caves honeycombing the valley, lifting his blade as high as he dared and struggling to find the source of the attacks before the next came crashing down on them…

There! The glow flared, and as his gaze darted up the cliff face he saw sparks dancing in the mouth of a passage high overhead. Shifting his weight back and dragging the reins across the mare’s neck, he barely managed to stop them ahead of the next bolt -- but before he could dismount, he saw the sparks flash again, and spurred Amber into a gallop back down the canyon, the roar of thunder chasing them through the dark. 

They couldn’t keep this up forever. There had to be a way up, but he could find no shelter within easy reach, and every moment spent motionless gave the enemy time to better aim his next attack. All he could do was keep them moving, wheeling and changing course and searching desperately for a shelter, an opening, something, _anything--_

Something rumbled overhead, deeper than the thunder, a sound that shook the very earth beneath them. Amber skidded to a stop without urging as a cascade of boulders and rubble tumbled down the cliff face, throwing up a heavy cloud of dust...and offering, however briefly, an opportunity. 

Only one chance. Spurring the mare into a gallop, Chrom sheathed his sword and shifted in the saddle, bracing himself as best he could -- and lunging toward the pile of rocks as she raced past. His aim was true: in spite of the painful impact, he landed high on a boulder leaning against the wall and wasted no time in scrambling higher through the thinning haze to one of the narrow caverns worn into the canyon walls. 

Pausing briefly to catch his breath, he watched as Amber raced back down the length of the canyon toward the plateau, the shadow of a wyvern blotting out the moonlight and cloaking her flight. At least she was safe from further danger. Feeling his way deeper into the dark, he waited until he could no longer see the valley beyond before drawing Falchion to light his path again; at the first branch in the tunnel, he swept the blade back and forth before the openings...and finally moved warily down the path that made the pale flames brighten and dance. 

He had no concept of how long he spent in the maze within the cliffs. What felt like hours spent anxiously checking every fork in every passage could not have been more than several minutes, at best: the soft moonlight had not faded to morning when at last he saw the sky again...and silhouetted against it, a figure peered out into the dark, spaulders adorned with spikes making him seem far more intimidating than his rather gangling frame would otherwise afford him -- and in his hand, a fearsome pike stood braced against the stone floor, violet sparks licking the length of its blade. 

Releasing a slow, silent breath, Chrom crept forward, tightening his grip on Falchion’s hilt. The berserker continued to scan the canyon, seeming oblivious to the prince’s presence...

The instant the thought crossed his mind, the man turned toward him. Desperate to end the fight before it could escalate, Chrom lunged -- only for his foe to dodge out of the way. “How did you get here!?” he demanded. The prince did not answer, though the man hardly seemed to expect it; instead, he blocked Chrom’s next slash, shoving the prince away as lightning crackled along his weapon. “No matter -- I’m quite glad you’ve come! I’ve always wondered what Grima’s power might do to a human -- oh, and one of Naga’s, no less!” he cackled. “This should be _quite_ the fun experiment!”

Gritting his teeth, Chrom swung again, only for the berserker to parry the strike, knocking the prince briefly off balance. By the time he recovered, Falchion’s glow had paled before the deep violet light radiating off his enemy’s weapon, and he braced himself to dodge the lightning he knew would come…

Thunder rumbled beyond the cave, the bolt striking the narrow lip of stone at the opening in the cliff face. The berserker’s smile froze, his face paling as he realized his mistake -- but before he could move to correct it, Chrom lunged, his blade slicing deep through flesh and armor alike. 

The man slumped, a dark pool of blood spreading around him as the prince staggered back, retching at the coppery stench that filled the narrow passage. Hurriedly cleaning and sheathing Falchion, Chrom crept forward, reaching down and prising the spear from his fallen foe’s hands--

The instant it came free of the berserker’s death grip, agony scorched through his arms, white-hot lightning crackling across his every nerve. A deafening scream echoed endlessly in the tunnel...and he realized, distantly, that the sound was his own as darkness overwhelmed him. 


	5. Grima's Fang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chrom once more wakes at the Dragon's Table, and sets off to retrieve the next artifact: a sword forged from one of Grima's fangs, made to slay both beasts and dragons. With his grief threatening to overwhelm him, his mind strays toward memories of Robin, and while they see him through the journey they cannot ease the burden that comes from meeting another member of Robin's family. The shadowy Midmire proves a dangerous place when his foe lies poised to strike out of the dark, and it will take his all simply to survive, let alone succeed...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a warning, this is a fairly rough chapter and fairly heavy on the angst. There's also quite a bit of worldbuilding in here, with inspiration drawn from the wonderful [AcquaSole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcquaSole/pseuds/AcquaSole)'s story [To Chase a Hart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2411135/chapters/5333141), which I can't recommend highly enough. <3 As before, slashes (/) represent flashbacks, while double lines (=) separate dreams (in italics) from reality. I hope you enjoy!

_He recognized this darkness now. The familiarity of it was strange, given how often he'd been told to fear and distrust the dark; stranger still was the relief he felt at the realization that he'd returned to this place, with its shifting flow of shadows that eased his lingering pain to nothing more than a memory._

_A sound stirred him again. That voice, still indistinct but louder now, calling out to him, and his heart lodged in his throat as a subtle warmth wrapped around his hand._

_“Robin? Wait, please--!”_

===

Chrom gasped, his fingers clutching at nothing more than air. His throat tightened as he pressed his forehead to the smooth stones, grief tearing a low sob from his chest to echo through the sanctum. Robin had been there -- he was sure of it, he had _felt_ it…

But all that remained now was the cold. 

Pushing himself up off the floor, the prince once again approached the altar at the heart of the Dragon's Table, climbing the low steps to the central dais. As he looked around the platform, his gaze fell upon the spear, leaning upright against an ornately carved plinth. If nothing else, he was making headway. 

_“You’ve done well, tiny one.”_

Chrom shivered as the voice rumbled through him, but did not turn to look at the shadows. He turned his gaze up, instead, to the waning moon visible through the opening in the roof, the scattering of stars strewn through the dark around it, and waited for the murmur to fill his ears again. _“To the northwest lies a rocky waste where the rains have long washed over my remains. In that place a sword is kept, forged from one of my fangs as vengeance for the cruelty Naga’s own wrought, meant to strike down dragon and beast alike. The man who wields it is swift in mind and body, but he has used his gifts to steal countless lives in the name of his twisted zeal. Take it from him and return here: without it, your enemies will be unable to halt your progress…”_

“I understand,” the prince called. As the whisper faded to silence once more, he squeezed his eyes shut tight, drew in an unsteady breath...and lowered his head, blinking down at the body lying atop the altar. In spite of how the wan moonlight silvered all it touched, he could swear that there was warmth beneath the ashen pallor -- he couldn’t just be imagining it, could he? Brushing the backs of his knuckles against Robin’s cheek, he drew in another shaking breath. “Robin, please...if you can hear me, please, say something, _anything_ …”

Something warm slipped down his face, dripping onto the young man’s cheek. But even as Chrom wiped it away with the ball of his thumb, Robin did not stir. 

“I’ll be back soon,” he whispered thickly. Drying his eyes with the heel of his hand, the prince turned and hurried away from the altar, out of the rotunda, and down the winding stair to the base of the spire. Amber’s soft whicker of greeting brought a vague smile to his face as he stepped out into the moonlight; he paused as she nudged his shoulder, stroking her velvet nose and feeling the warmth of her breath against his palm. “I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured. He wasn’t certain he could bear the loneliness otherwise. She nuzzled his hair briefly as he patted her neck, standing quietly as he pulled himself once more into the saddle and drew his blade. Turning her toward the flicker of Falchion’s glow, he spurred her once more toward the desert beyond the tower, and the challenge that awaited still further ahead.

His thoughts strayed as he looked out over the rising dunes. The pale sands shone silver-white under the waning half-moon, desolate and devoid of life or movement. It looked mournful, to his eye -- and perhaps that was fitting, given what he knew. These lands had lost their Heart, after all: what other color would they wear to show their grief? 

/////

The knock at the parlour door brought Chrom’s head up, a smile breaking across his face even as Frederick reminded him for the sixth time to remain still. “Come in!” he called. 

The door opened as the prince turned, ignoring yet another protest from the great knight. “Good morning,” Robin said as he stepped inside...and paused, seeming suddenly flustered as he scanned the room, taking in the three Ylissean royals and the attendants fussing over their elaborate pastel garb. “A-am I interrupting something?” he asked sheepishly. 

“Of course not!” Lissa piped up, bouncing excitedly in place until Maribelle’s tutting at last got her attention. “Happy Day of Light!”

“Day of Light?” the Plegian repeated, tilting his head slightly to one side. 

“Yeah!” she laughed. “How do you not know it? It’s only the _biggest_ festival day of the whole year!”

“Robin’s not from Ylisse,” Emmeryn reminded her sister gently. “It’s no surprise that he’s not familiar with it.”

“It’s the day Naga blessed the First Exalt and they triumphed over the fell dragon,” Chrom explained. “Every year we hold the Festival of Naga’s Light to celebrate it.”

“There’s feasting and dancing and flowers hung up all through the city!” Lissa added. “And the square has puppet shows and games and plays and stands that give out sweets and trinkets and flowers…”

“It sounds very festive,” Robin murmured. 

“It’s great!” the princess agreed. “You’re gonna have so much fun--”

“O-oh, no, I couldn’t possibly intrude,” the young man interrupted.

“Awww, c’mon! Why not?” Lissa demanded, stomping her boot on the floor while Maribelle fussed with the lay of the princess’ skirts. 

“I doubt that the people of Ylisse would take kindly to a Plegian in their midst on such a holy day,” Robin mumbled, rubbing the back of his hand. 

“Not everyone in the halidom shares our father’s feelings for Plegia or her people,” Emmeryn said gently as Phila straightened and smoothed the princess’ shawl. “You are welcome here. Truly. And while we do understand why you might choose not to take part, if you want to join us we would be honored to share this day with you.”

The young man folded his hands, offering a slight bow. “I’m truly grateful for your hospitality,” he murmured. “But even so, I’m afraid I came ill-prepared. I’d not anticipated being here in the halidom so long, and I’ve nothing suitable to wear for such an event...”

“We can fix that,” Chrom insisted, moving with Frederick in frustrated pursuit toward one of the many chests that had been brought out for the occasion. Lifting the lid, he crouched down and began to rummage through the various garments dyed in hues from the sky blue of his own garb to soft rose to the green of budding leaves. “What color would you like?”

“Might I recommend that lilac one?” Maribelle remarked, fluffing Lissa’s sleeves. “I think it would look rather fetching.”

“Would you happen to have anything in white?” Robin asked quietly. 

Chrom dug through the trunk while his younger sister whined in protest. “That’s no fun! Don’t you want to wear something prettier? More colorful? We’ve got all kinds of things…”

“That’s quite alright,” the young man chuckled, accepting the silk shirt and fine linen breeches the prince offered. “This should be fine. Thank you,” he added softly, moving behind the screen Chrom indicated before the great knight once more resumed fussing over the prince’s collar and cuffs, belts and boots, and everything in between. 

As Frederick finally stepped back, Robin moved into view once more, idly adjusting the loose material and casting a shy glance toward the assembled royals. “Does this look alright?”

“It fits terribly,” Maribelle huffed. Which didn’t surprise Chrom much, since the clothes had been tailored to his own measurements, not the Plegian’s lean build. “And we’ve far too little time to make proper adjustments -- gracious, just _look_ at how it hangs, it’s _disgraceful!_ ” 

“I rather like it,” the young man protested. “It’s quite comfortable this way. Perhaps just some tightening around the wrists?”

The noblewoman tutted indignantly, bustling over with Lissa close behind to fret over Robin’s borrowed clothes...but in surprisingly little time, she stepped back, seeming at least mollified if not fully satisfied. The Plegian, for his part, nervously smoothed the slightly more form-fitting shirt, fidgeting with the lay of the collar until Maribelle swatted his hands away and adjusted it herself. “I suppose it will suffice on such short notice,” she declared, tucking the needle and silver thread away in her brocade sewing kit. 

“I think you look nice,” Chrom offered. 

Robin smiled shyly, a dark blush coloring his cheekbones. “Thank you, Prince Chrom,” he murmured. 

“Just Chrom really is fine,” the prince insisted, ignoring Frederick’s disapproving glance. But the Plegian only smiled and shook his head as Lissa latched onto his arm and tugged him out the door, sunny skirts bouncing along with her skipping steps while Emmeryn and Chrom hurried to catch up. 

They only managed it at the top of the stairs leading down to the castle courtyard, which had been bedecked in floral garlands and banners bearing the crest of House Ylisse. As they reached the bottom of the steps, Sumia hurried over to greet them, minding her footing to avoid damaging the flower crowns she bore. Robin looked on with a quiet smile as she placed sunflowers on each of the royals’ heads, carefully arranging the daisies dangling from Lissa’s to frame the princess’ face in place of her usual buttons, before offering chains of roses, lilacs, and pansies to Maribelle, Phila, and Frederick. Though the Plegian’s presence alongside them took the pegasus knight briefly by surprise, she swiftly set about making one more headdress of white daisies to adorn his pale hair, placing them as cheerfully as she had Chrom's own. 

“You're certain it looks alright?” Robin asked as Emmeryn took the lead, guiding them down the stairs, through the palace gates, and toward the sprawling city beyond. 

“Completely,” the prince confirmed. For all that Maribelle had claimed the violet would suit him, Chrom found the sharp contrast between his dark skin and pale garb strikingly handsome. 

Bright blooms filled the windows and framed the doors of buildings they passed on their way down the main thoroughfare; but the city square was truly a sight to behold, with garlands of fresh blossoms edging every building, from the stone shopfronts to the market stalls to the stage at the heart of the plaza. The bustling crowds that thronged the streets wore their own crowns of flowers, and several booths were bursting with irises fashioned into pins in honor of the festival. Emmeryn briefly broke away with Phila while Lissa dragged the rest of the group off toward a stall selling candied figs, honey crystals, and sugar drops, stocking up on as much candy as Frederick could carry before leading the way toward a gaggle of children laughing and cheering at a painted booth where a puppet Exalt did battle with a marionette of the fell dragon. 

As the little cloth figure gave its final bow and the curtains closed, Emmeryn and her guard returned with an array of iris pins. “These are the emblem of Ylisse,” she explained as she pinned a white bloom to Robin’s borrowed shirt. “It’s said that when Naga blessed the first Exalt and gave unto him Her favor, they sealed their bond in blood, and where Her blood touched the earth irises sprang forth in droves. On this day, we wear them in memory of that pact.”

“They’re lovely,” he murmured, touching the edge of its pale petals with the tips of his gloved fingers while the princess pinned a blue iris to her brother’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

Emmeryn smiled gently at him as Lissa and Maribelle pinned one anothers’ flowers in place, gesturing toward the stage erected at the heart of the plaza. A crowd began to gather as strains of music floated over the square, heralding the arrival of a wizened man in the vestments of Naga’s church. Making their way closer, Chrom found his attention drifting as the clergyman recited his speech in a reedy monotone; he’d heard the same words every year before the re-enactment of Naga’s blessing, and whether he liked it or not, he knew the entire ceremony by heart. Glancing at the young man beside him, the prince was struck again at the handsome contrast between his pale clothes and hair against his deeply tanned skin. He watched the stage with polite attention, and for the first time Chrom realized that Robin's eyes were the color of honey, a gold so rich it was easily mistakable for mere brown at a glance. But...there was something about the young man's expression that bothered him, a distant sort of sadness that he couldn’t quite place…

The sudden applause from the people around them startled the prince out of his thoughts, and he hurriedly joined in to hide how far his mind had drifted. Turning his gaze back toward the platform, he watched the man in white and silver armor and the woman in robes decorated with mother-of-pearl scales give a low bow, moving to opposite ends of the stage to make way for the Exalt of Ylisse. He struck a regal figure, to be sure, with his powerful build, broad shoulders, and golden mane haloing his head beneath the sunflower crown. The people fell silent as he raised his hands, waiting with bated breath as the man prepared to speak. 

“People of Ylisse,” he called, his voice carrying out into the streets beyond the square, “on this, the longest day of the year, we give thanks to Naga for the blessings She bestowed upon our people. She gave us this beautiful land, overflowing with bounty; She gave us Her Brand, and founded the noble lineage that reigns justly over Her faithful; and She gave us Her Favors, in the form of shield and sword, that Her Chosen might conquer any who threaten those who She has dubbed Her Own. On this day, we remember these gifts and give thanks to Her, our blessed divine, to whom we owe so much. Praise be, the Light of Naga.”

“Praise be,” the crowd echoed. 

“One thousand years ago today, Naga bestowed Her Brand upon Her Chosen, naming him the First Exalt. With Her blessing, he waged a fierce battle against the Fell Dragon, Breath of Ruin and Wings of Despair -- and with Her aid, he laid low the dark beast that threatened mankind, quelling Grima’s immeasurable evil and securing peace and prosperity for Her people. Glory be upon the First Exalt.”

“Glory be,” Chrom repeated automatically, hearing the people around him repeat the same. 

“But we must remember, too, that Naga’s work was not finished that day -- for even now, a thousand years after the Fell Dragon’s defeat, there are those who worship that damned beast, and claim him as their divine.”

The prince froze, a cold prickle of unease raising the hair on his neck. Glancing sidelong at Robin, he saw the young man silently watching the stage, his hands folded before him and his expression carefully composed. 

“For all that they may seem alike to us, they are naught but vile heathens, corrupted by that ruinous dragon’s influence and wreaking destruction in his stead with their wicked magic. Wretched savages, they claim even on this, the holiest of days, that they do no wrong, flaunting the color of purity and innocence as though their hands are not stained with blood.”

The Exalt raised a hand, pointing down at the front of the crowd where Robin stood. Chrom saw people turn, felt the weight of countless stares, heard the sudden susurrus of whispers as the crowd rippled and stepped back, leaving the royals and their entourage as a lonely island guarding the Plegian in their midst. 

“Grima nearly brought this world to ruin once,” the man called, his voice booming through the plaza as his grey eyes stared unwaveringly at Robin’s face. “But as my forebear did one thousand years ago, I will see to it that the world is spared from evil. All who worship the fell dragon’s name will burn, and this land will finally know true salvation -- I do so swear!”

The people around them burst into riotous applause, and Chrom felt his stomach knot in horror. Stepping closer to the Plegian, he gently took hold of the young man’s arm…and felt him trembling fiercely beneath that touch. “Come on,” he breathed, guiding Robin past the stage, away from the roaring crowd, and into one of the narrow alleys beyond. The sound dimmed as the prince wove through the empty side streets, leading them back to the main road well beyond the throng of festival-goers...but Robin did not speak even as they made their way through the castle gates and into the courtyard. 

The prince felt a fresh swell of rage as he looked over the banners decorating the walls and lawn, boldly emblazoned with the crest of House Ylisse. And he knew well that the palace halls would be no better. So he continued forward, making his way into the gardens, letting the dappled shadows beneath the trees cool his anger into a simmering ire. By the time he came back to his senses, he found himself standing just beyond a pavilion overlooking the pond, the sunlight rippling off the water to paint dazzling patterns across the ceiling; gesturing vaguely, he guided the young man up the shallow steps, finally releasing Robin’s arm as he took a weary seat on the bench encircling the structure.

It took a moment before the young man joined him, settling several feet away with his back straight and his hands neatly folded on his knees. “I’m sorry,” the prince mumbled. “If I’d known that was going to happen I’d…”

“Is that really how you think of us?”

Chrom lifted his head, gaping at the Plegian who did not meet his eye. “Of course not--”

“You heard their cheers,” Robin whispered, his fingers trembling as he tightened his grip. “You saw them back away from the _vile heathen_ in their midst. And even before that -- you saw that little play, with the puppet Exalt beating Grima over the head with his sword, and how the children laughed and mocked the dragon as it cried. Is that really how you see our people? Evil savages, undeserving of empathy, or even kindness?”

Robin struggled with the words, his voice wavering -- and the prince saw his eyes brim with tears in spite of his obvious efforts to fight them back. “That’s not...”

The words he wanted to say died on his lips. He’d grown so used to the shows, the spectacle, that he’d never even thought of how it must appear to someone from beyond the halidom. Gods, looking at it now -- at _everything --_ he felt his throat tighten around a choking knot of guilt. But still, he swallowed it back, drawing in an unsteady breath as he struggled to find his voice. “I don’t think of you that way,” he insisted, his voice thick and hoarse. 

“You barely know me,” Robin laughed -- and Chrom saw the tears at last spill over, tracking down his cheeks to stain his pale shirt. “And you know nothing of my faith. How can you claim that you don’t see me that way when you know _nothing_ of the truth, just these _stories_ that your faith has claimed for a thousand years to be fact? Do you know why I wore white today? Because today is a day of mourning in Plegia -- the day our sole protector was cut down, and the beginning of a thousand years of warfare, persecution, and hatred. And where I hail from, _white is the color we wear to mourn our dead._ ”

He sniffled thickly, scrubbing at his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve as he curled inward. “Gods, why did I come here?” he sobbed. “Why did I come to this forsaken place? I’m just a monster to these people, there can be no _peace_ when there is no _trust,_ when no one cares about the _truth…_ ”

“I do.”

The prince shifted closer, laying his arm gently across Robin’s shoulders -- and though the young man stiffened, he did not pull away. “I’m sorry about today,” Chrom whispered. “I didn’t know -- I didn’t _think._ And I know that doesn’t make it better, but...but I want to. To do better. To _be_ better. I want to know the truth. And I bet Emm and Lissa do, too. We care. So...if you can give us another chance…”

The young man whimpered softly, still fitfully trying (and failing) to stem the flow of tears as he looked to the prince. “Why?” he demanded. 

Chrom smiled, drawing Robin slightly closer. “Because you’re nothing like my father said you’d be,” he murmured. “I grew up on his stories -- we all did -- but...the day you came to Ylisse was the first time I realized how wrong he was. How wrong they all are. You’re not evil, or savage, or whatever else they think: you’re kind, and thoughtful, and giving, and...I don’t think you’d have come seeking peace on Plegia’s behalf if the rest of the country didn’t want it, too. I’m glad you came,” he added softly. “I’m glad I’ve been able to get to know you. And I want to do everything I can to help -- even if all I can do is listen, I want to learn anything you’d share.”

The young man sniffed again, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand as he began to uncurl from his huddle. “You’re certain?”

“Completely,” the prince assured him. And at last a smile -- uncertain still, but hopeful -- tugged at the corners of Robin's mouth as he leaned against Chrom’s shoulder. 

“Thank you,” he mumbled. 

“What are you thanking me for?” the prince laughed. “I should be thanking you -- I was the idiot who dragged you into this.”

“You meant well,” the young man chuckled. “And you didn’t know better. You’ll do better next time, I’m sure...and to be fair, the flowers are quite lovely.” To Chrom’s eye, though, the crown of daisies in Robin’s hair paled in comparison to the smile he wore -- but he couldn’t quite find it in himself to argue. 

/////

After a time, Chrom hardly needed Falchion’s light to guide him on: there was no doubt in his mind that the arched spires towering over the rugged landscape were his goal. Seeing the bones silhouetted against the setting sun as they approached the mire filled him with a mix of awe and dread as he tried to fathom the size of the dragon they’d belonged to: even when the stories spoke of how Grima filled the sky, he’d always thought it more a dramatic flourish than something real -- and even that description hardly did justice to the immensity of the bones before him. 

They rode through the long shadows as the rising moon silvered the spires, following the cliff that cut between the arches. Though the skies remained clear, a recent rain had muddied the thin soil, and the soft splash of Amber’s hooves in the puddles occasionally offset the echo of her steps on the bare stones. Just beyond the first bones jutting from the waste, he could see a low fort nestled near a break in the ridge...but when he drew Falchion, its glow flickered and flowed away, toward another gap in the bones further on. 

As they neared the structure, something moved at its gate. A broad figure lumbered into the middle of the shadowed path, accompanied by the distinct sound of clanking armor. “Hold, there!” a voice called.

Chrom pulled gently back on the reins as he sheathed his sword, and Amber agreeably stopped a few paces away from the general. In spite of the poor light, he could see that the man was well past his prime, his face deeply lined and his short-cropped hair gone fully silver. “Where did you come by that horse, traveler?” 

His heart twisted at the question. Gods, not again -- why did it seem that everywhere he went, the fight was only half the challenge he had to bear…

Drawing in an unsteady breath, the prince blinked his vision clear. “I’m only borrowing her for a short while,” he called. 

“And where is her rider?” the general asked. 

Chrom swallowed hard, praying that his voice would not break on the words. “He’s at the Dragon’s Table.”

Silence settled over the waste, oppressive, heavy enough to make the prince’s shoulders quake from the weight. The general bore it no better: he heard the armor shift as the man sagged, lifting a hand to touch his face and breastplate. “It can’t be true,” he whispered. “It can’t be...he was so young, just barely coming into his own, but he was destined for so much -- how can he be gone…”

“...are you Campari?” Chrom ventured. “Robin told me about you,” he explained as the man looked questioningly up at him. “He spoke fondly of you. He…”

The prince’s voice guttered out. Shaking his head, he raked one hand through his hair as the general mustered a mournful, unsteady laugh. “That would be just like him. He spoke well of everyone. I never heard him speak an unkind word to anyone. ...Plegia is lost without him -- a thousand years we struggled, waiting, praying, and in our darkest hour he came to us and gave us heart enough to push back the enemies at our door...but with him gone...all our hopes go with him.”

“They don’t have to,” Chrom whispered. “I’m...I’m here looking for someone. A man -- maybe an assassin -- with a slaying sword. Have you seen anyone like that?”

The general frowned, drumming his armored fingers on his lance. “That sounds like Jamil,” he muttered. “He arrived perhaps a month ago now, claiming he was on a mission for the hierophant. There have been far fewer travelers crossing through the Midmire since, and even though the rains often slow crossings, this has been...unusual. What do you need from him?”

“The sword he carries was made from one of Grima’s fangs,” the prince replied. “It holds part of Grima’s power -- it can help bring Robin back…”

Campari sighed, moving closer to stroke the mare’s neck. “Young man...you’re from the halidom, aren’t you? I’d wager you’re Chrom -- Robin mentioned an Ylissean by that name quite fondly in his letters. I don’t know what stories they tell in Ylisse, but here...each year, at the height of summer, we mourn the loss of our divine. A thousand years ago, Grima was cut down -- and both His size and power were great, then,” he murmured, gesturing toward the ribs curving into the sky above. “Yet still, at His greatest, He could not escape death. Robin was so young yet, his powers in their infancy...but death cares not for age, nor health, nor strength, and there is no returning once life is gone.”

“...Grima did.”

The general frowned, his attention straying from Amber to Chrom as the prince scrubbed at his wet cheeks. “Even if it took a thousand years, Robin was still born with Grima’s Heart. It’s what gave Plegia hope, and courage, and the strength to fight: because he was proof of their divine’s return. It happened once -- why not again? Isn’t...isn’t it at least worth trying?” he pleaded. 

Campari shook his head, giving the mare a final fond pat before stepping aside. “That’s what he said before he set off, you know,” the man chuckled. “No one wanted to see him cross the border. The halidom’s a dangerous place for a Plegian, and peace seemed an impossible prospect...but he thought it was worth trying. I begged him to take care, then. I’ll ask the same of you now, young man.”

“Thank you,” the prince said, bowing his head to the general. Campari only nodded, watching as Chrom spurred Amber forward -- and even once they passed, the prince heard no tell-tale clanking to give away the man’s retreat. 

Turning Amber down one of the rifts between the great bones, Chrom withdrew Falchion again from its sheath, lifting it high to light the dark. Its glow flickered eerily across the rough walls as they made their way through the pass, dimming only once they emerged on the far side. The light rippled along the length of the blade as the mare trotted toward the opposite end of the waste, where yet another fort appeared out of the dark--

The mare stopped short. Her head came up, breath huffing in the chill air an instant before she shied, hooves drumming anxiously on the stone. “What is it?” he asked, tightening his grip on Falchion’s hilt as he gathered up the reins--

Something flashed in the shadows just ahead.

The prince moved on instinct, turning Amber and sweeping his sword toward the darkness. It struck something, a chilling tone ringing through the night as the mare shrieked and galloped back the way they’d come. For once, he could not seem to control her: even pulling back as hard as he dared on the reins, she paused just long enough to wheel once in place before taking off again. Only as they neared the far wall did he finally manage to stop her flight; stroking her neck soothingly, Chrom looked back the way they’d come, searching the darkness for any sign of movement, any shadows darting through the pale moonlight...but there was nothing. No sound, no motion, not even a breath of wind. He couldn’t have imagined it…

Amber tensed again, her breath blowing as she tossed her head. And in the darkness close beside them he saw another gleam of violet -- gods, how had he caught up so fast? Dragging the reins across her neck, Chrom spurred the mare into a canter, giving the shadows a wide berth and turning her down one of the narrow passages well beyond the enemy’s position. As they emerged on the opposite side of the waste, he again reined her in, lifting his sword and watching the play of light across the blade pointing back the way they’d come. 

Drawing in a steadying breath, the prince sheathed his blade and dismounted, gently stroking Amber's neck as she nudged his shoulder. “It’s dangerous for you,” he murmured. “I’ll be alright. Just stay safe. Go on now: I’ll find you again soon.”

The mare snorted, nudging him again as he started back up the pass. “No,” he sighed, holding up his hand. “Go back.” She made a quiet sound, bumping her nose into his palm...but when he did not relent, she backed away, turning and trotting out of sight, back in the direction of the fort where Campari had met them. And that, at least, gave him some small measure of relief: at least she would not come to harm. 

Steeling himself again, Chrom lifted his sword high, creeping back toward the far side of the mire. Falchion’s glow did not waver or shift, even as he emerged from the narrow pass; keeping his eyes trained on the dark, alert to any trace of movement from the shadows, any glint of metal or violet aura, he made his way back toward the cliff where they had last seen the enemy’s blade, watching as the light began to dance wildly along the sword’s length the closer he drew to the cleft...and lunged into the dark between the bones, slicing swiftly--

At nothing. 

As he shifted into a defensive stance, surveying the narrow passage, a glint of metal drew his eye down. A sword lay in the middle of the path, mere feet from where he’d struck, the wickedly sharp blade edged in serrated teeth that could rip through dragon scale as easily as flesh...

Cursing himself, he lunged forward -- just as something tore through his side. He fell hard to the ground, pressing a hand to the wound and feeling the blood rushing past his fingers as he struggled up onto his knees. A man walked out of the shadows, tall and lean with a gaunt face that turned a rictus grin on the prince while he wiped blood from the stiletto blade in his hands. “I can’t believe you fell for such an obvious ruse,” the assassin chuckled, lifting the sword from the ground as Chrom tightened his unsteady grip on his own weapon; it gleamed in the face of Falchion’s light, an eerie, shifting violet that seemed to darken the air around it. “And here I’d been starting to worry, after Afrid and Algol -- seems it was their own arrogance that did them in. I still can’t absolve you of your part in striking them down, though -- any who defy Grima’s might must be purged by His flames. Best pray to your divine, boy: they’ll be the last words you manage.”

The man lifted the sword high, preparing an execution strike. Chrom grimaced, lifting his holy blade over his head and bracing it against his arm, praying it would be enough to stave off the blow--

A cacaphonous clanking filled the cleft, ringing deafeningly through the prince’s ears. He saw his foe’s weapon swing down at the same instant that a wall lunged between prince and assassin; the eerie sound of another deflected blow echoed around them as he heard his foe stagger back. “How _dare_ you, Campari, defying Grima’s will--”

“What do _you_ know of Grima’s will, you louse?” the general roared, rapping his lance against his sturdy plate. “You do the _hierophant’s_ bidding, not Grima’s -- and you deserve far worse than this.”

Chrom gathered his feet, glancing up to see Campari nod down to him -- and as the man charged forward, ramming the assassin with his shield, the prince lunged around it, slicing through the rogue’s leather armor and leaving a black arc painted high on the wall beside them as the body crumpled to the ground. 

“Well done, there,” Campari remarked, patting Chrom’s shoulder. “Looks like you picked up some tricks from Robin along the way -- he had a knack for tactics, to be sure…”

The prince managed a weak smile...but as he turned, pain lanced through his side, bringing him to his knees with a gasp. “That’s a nasty wound there,” the general muttered, crouching down to inspect it in Falchion’s light. “Wait here a moment -- I’ll fetch a vulnerary from the infirmary, and we’ll get that patched up.”

“Thank you,” Chrom mumbled. Campari offered the prince another reassuring pat on the back as he rose, the dissonant clanking of his armor retreating through the pass and finally fading into silence. “...I’m sorry,” Chrom added, cleaning his blade with shaking hands and sheathing it once more at his side. Crawling on hands and knees to the fallen assassin, he fought to uncurl the man’s fingers from around his sword hilt, cursing his own weak grip and the tremors running through him...but after a moment’s struggle, the blade fell free, chiming faintly on the bloody stones. Drawing in a deep breath and steeling himself for what he knew would come, the prince gripped the weapon--

Fire poured through his veins, burning under his skin. He convulsed, choking on the scream as it tore his throat raw and echoed into the dark around him...before everything faded into silence. 


	6. Grima's Scale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the consequences of his quest begin to reveal themselves, Chrom forges ahead and sets out to retrieve the next artifact: an impenetrable shield made from one of Grima's scales. Heartened by his progress, he thinks back on happier times to ease his way, allowing him to stand strong in the face of rebuke from another grieving member of Robin's family; but with an enemy that can strike without warning whose defenses are nigh invincible, his success is far from guaranteed...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this chapter will provide some small bit of relief after how bleak the last chapter was. Lots of world building in this particular chapter, too, so anyone who enjoys that has something to look forward to. As before, slashes (/) represent flashbacks, while double lines (=) separate dreams (in italics) from reality. I hope you enjoy!

_He felt the strangest sense of relief as the familiar darkness embraced him. His pain had faded away, leaving little more than a memory of his wound, and even that was swiftly fading as the warm shadows carried him quietly on their unknown course…_

_“Chrom?”_

_He recognized that voice. But hard as he tried, he couldn’t find the strength to answer, even as slender fingers brushed across his face…_

===

Chrom roused slowly from where he lay crumpled on the cold stones. Blinking through the dark, he pushed himself gingerly up onto his knees, instinctively pressing a hand to his injured side…

No more than a slight twinge greeted him. Frowning, he looked down at the wound, examining the bloody tear in his shirt...but though the fabric had not mended, no more than a fresh pink scar remained from the assassin’s strike. Small favors, he supposed, rising to his feet; the mark pulled uncomfortably as he took his first careful steps toward the dais, but he felt no pain or fresh blood, and continued on his way with slightly more confidence, mounting the stairs to stand beside the altar. Scanning the platform, he mustered a smile as he saw the sword displayed atop a dark stone pedestal, the metal gleaming violet under the faint moonlight. He’d succeeded -- and with that, he was halfway to his goal.

 _“You’ve done well, tiny one._ ”

For all that he’d been sure he’d grown used to the voice, it always made him shiver -- but he swore he felt something stir in the air around him, and turned to scan the empty shadows again in search of whatever spoke. _“To the southwest, near the point where the sea separates the islands from the shore, woodland gives way to rolling hills. In that place a shield is kept, hewn from one of my scales and nigh impenetrable to attacks by sword or spell. The sorcerer who holds it now is powerful, and in his corrupt devotion he has used that power to commit unforgivable atrocities. Take it from him and return here: without it, your enemies will be unable to bar your way forward…”_

“I understand,” the prince called. As the hum faded into silence once more, he looked down at the body on the altar, feeling a faint smile tug at his lips as the memory of his dream crept back. “Robin?” he whispered. He was certain he’d heard the young man’s voice, felt his touch, however briefly...perhaps he really was making progress, after all. Folding his fingers around Robin’s…

Chrom paused, staring down at his arm. In the light from the open roof, his skin looked pale...but shot through it were dark veins, creeping up from beneath his gloves. 

What was it the voice had said? That the price would be steep…? 

He’d said then that it didn’t matter. Not if it brought Robin back. And with the memory of that warm caress on his cheek so fresh in his mind, that still held true. “I’ll be back soon,” he murmured, squeezing the still fingers gently. “Wait for me.”

No response came. But he had not expected one. Turning from the altar, the prince made his way down the spiral stair to the base of the tower, smiling as Amber trotted up to greet him and patting her neck as she nuzzled his hair. “Sorry if I worried you,” he chuckled. “I’m okay. I promise.”

She settled agreeably as he pulled himself up into the saddle, checking his wound again as it twinged and sighing when no blood met his touch. Unsheathing Falchion, he lifted it high, turning the mare away from the dunes and spurring her on toward the southern sands. They were making progress -- the thought alone made his heart swell with hope that he might see Robin’s smile again, hear his laughter, feel the warmth of his touch chase away the cold…and once more find peace through the storm with that gentle presence at his side.

/////

As the sound of approaching footsteps reached them, Chrom nearly vaulted over the couch, watching the door raptly as his younger sister scrambled to join him. “Keep it down,” he muttered, nudging her gently as she tried to stifle her giggling in her gloves. They could hear conversation now, though they couldn’t make out the words: Emmeryn’s soft voice was unmistakable, her tone reassuring and warm as she spoke...and Robin’s voice replied as their sister’s paused, sounding tired but grateful in the moment before the door swung open. 

Whatever discussion might have been going on abruptly fell silent as the young man stopped in the doorway, looking from the princess bouncing excitedly in place to the prince grinning beside her. “I-is this a family tea?” he asked, glancing at Emmeryn as he stepped aside to let her enter ahead of him. 

“Chrom and Lissa were hoping that you wouldn’t mind their company today,” the eldest princess replied, hiding a smile behind her hand as she moved to sit on one of the low couches before the table. “It’s been quite busy lately, and we’ve had so little time to talk of matters beyond diplomacy since the Festival…”

The fallout from the celebration had been swift. Though Chrom had succeeded in reassuring their foreign guest, Emmeryn’s public show of defiance against their father’s speech had proven a double-edged sword: her plea for understanding of other cultures might have quieted the crowd, but her reminder of the hardships that came of the last campaign had turned them against the Exalt’s thinly-veiled call to renew his crusade, and had earned her no small measure of their father's ire. The terms she had recently brought before him to lengthen the armistice were torn apart before her at their first audience following the festival; ever since, she and Robin had spent most of their days cloistered in the palace library, compiling an exhaustive list of negotiable items in the hopes of bringing a new set of terms before the Exalt once his temper had cooled. 

“We were hoping you could tell us about Plegia,” Chrom added, offering his hand to the young man. “If you still don’t mind sharing.”

Robin smiled, his honey-colored eyes crinkling slightly at the corners and easing the lines of stress etched across his features. “I’d be happy to,” he replied, taking the prince’s hand and moving to sit where Chrom indicated. Lissa bounced into the space beside the Plegian before her brother could sit, sticking her tongue out at him as she hugged Robin’s arm; rolling his eyes, Chrom grudgingly took his own seat beside their older sister, accepting the cup of tea she offered as Lissa passed a saucer to the young man beside her. 

“So what is it you’d like to know?” Robin asked shyly. 

“Whatever you wish to share,” Emmeryn replied with an encouraging smile. 

“You could tell us about the day of mourning you mentioned?” the prince suggested. “If you want.”

The young man fidgeted slightly, glancing between the royals who all nodded in agreement. “We call it the Day of Remembrance,” he explained, running the tip of a gloved finger along the rim of his teacup. “It’s the day when we mourn not only the loss of our divine, but all those who have perished in the conflicts that followed. Everyone wears white in a show of mourning: it’s the color of death and loss in Plegia, of bones bleached by the desert sun...they’ve long been worn by time now, and gone brown or grey from age and weathering, but Grima’s bones were white once -- ‘pale monuments of our fallen divine,’ is how they put it. We fast through the day, and in the evening as the sun sets, everyone comes together for a ceremony to remember those lost...but as the moon rises, the rite reminds us that there is still hope, for Grima was not destroyed, but only became one with the shadow of the world, and still watches over and guides us.”

“Spooky,” Lissa mumbled around a bite of her scone. 

“Is it?” Robin asked. “We find it reassuring. There are no places in the world that shadows do not reach: even the brightest light casts a deep shadow, so no matter where we go, our divine is always with us.”

“Huh. I guess that does sound kind of nice,” she admitted. “But isn’t it scary to worship a divine called ‘The Breath of Ruin’?”

“That’s how Ylisse sees Grima,” the young man chuckled. “And while those titles are true to an extent, they only apply to those who would do harm to those Grima calls His Own. To Plegia, He was our protector: we call Him ‘the fell dragon’ for His ferocity in defending His people, not for any cruelty He showed us. Often we refer to Grima as ‘The Six-Eyes,’ if not by name, since it’s said that His Eyes knew the sum and measure of any who came before Him, from their thoughts to their talents to their heart's desires. It's why Grima's Mark has a six-eyed pattern.”

“Like your sleeves?” Chrom ventured. 

“Exactly,” Robin agreed, touching one of the violet patches. 

“Can anyone wear them?” Emmeryn inquired. “In Ylisse only the royal house is allowed to display the Brand -- even the clergy cannot show the Mark of Naga without the Exalt's permission.”

“Really? Why?” Robin asked.

“Because the Brand is sacred,” she explained. “It's the symbol of Naga's bond with House Ylisse -- it surfaces on those born to the Exalted lineage, and marks those who may inherit rule of the halidom. Our father claims that wearing the mark without permission is akin to claiming a right to the throne, and considers it an act of treason.”

Robin’s cup rattled nervously against its saucer as he lifted it for another sip. “That seems very harsh,” he mumbled. “In Plegia the Mark of Grima is everywhere: on talismans, textiles, clothing, carvings…but then, it’s also not the mark that defines our ruler, so...”

“Plegia has a king, though, doesn't it?” Chrom noted. “Does rule just pass to the oldest heir?”

The young man smiled over the rim of his cup. “Actually, we have no dynasties. In the past, Grima was our divine and our ruler both, guarding and guiding our people. After His Fall, we had neither. So the people called on diviners to discern Grima's will and determine who would act as His Voice, and oversee the nation in His stead. When a ruler dies, another is chosen from a small group of those in the Grimleal hierarchy or the former ruler's council. It's very rare for rule to stay in one family, since the selection is made by a neutral party.”

Emmeryn paused in pouring another cup of tea for her sister. “How do they make their choice?” 

“Well, I don't know the specifics -- it's a closely guarded secret -- but I'm certain it involves some form of divination, whether it's interpreting the cracks in shells or scrying in crystals. When the ruler nears death, six diviners -- one for each of Grima's Eye's -- are called to assemble for the ceremony at the Dragon's Table--”

“They sacrifice somebody!?” Lissa sputtered.

Robin paused, turning to stare at the princess. “What? No. Why do you think that?”

“Isn't the Dragon's Table where the sacrifices happen?” she demanded, looking to her siblings to back her claim. 

“The texts about Plegia that we have in the halidom are hardly reliable,” Emmeryn supplied apologetically. “There's a treatise that discusses the Dragon's Table as a sacrificial altar, where unburdened processions were seen entering, which were later seen leaving with shrouded bodies.”

Robin blinked. And then began to laugh, warm and sincere. “Oh, gods, is that really what people here think?” he asked, setting aside his cup to avoid spilling his tea. “We don't sacrifice lives like that. Blood sacrifices are an important aspect of some of our rituals, but all we need is a small amount: a finger prick, usually, a shallow cut at worst.”

“So why is it called the Dragon's Table if that's not where people got eaten?” Lissa asked.

“Because that was where Grima held council with humans, before His Fall,” the young man explained. “Grima filed the sky, at the height of His Power. Landing was a difficult prospect, let alone taking off again. But the Dragon's Table is a high tower, one of the tallest structures in all Plegia, so humans would go to the top and Grima would fly above it and they would convene through the open roof. It was a meeting table, not a dining one.”

“Oh,” the youngest princess mumbled sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“It's alright,” Robin reassured her. “Of course, things are different now. The Dragon’s Table is a site of ritual and ceremony, where Grima is invoked to bear witness as new hierophants are ordained and rulers crowned who will guide Plegia in His stead. Many rulers make a pilgrimage to the Dragon's Table when they feel their final hours drawing near, as well, that Grima might watch over their final moments…but even when death comes too swiftly to make the journey, they are brought to the tower that Grima might see them before they are buried. Once the ceremony is done and the body removed from the altar to be laid to rest, the diviners sequester themselves and interpret their signs to discern Grima's Will and determine who will next act as His Voice.”

“You really know a lot, huh,” Lissa giggled. 

“Well, the last king of Plegia died several years ago,” the young man murmured. “All of this happened relatively recently: the summoning of the diviners, the pilgrimage to the Dragon's Table, the burial of the last king, the coronation of the next…”

“Do you know if the Heart of Grima played a role in the ceremony?” Emmeryn inquired. 

Robin twitched. “You know of the Heart?” he asked. 

“Only its existence,” she replied, shaking her head. “Around the time Chrom was born, rumors began to circulate -- things heard in battle cries, words from Plegian prisoners…and shortly thereafter the tides began to turn out of our father’s favor. He believed the Heart granted Plegians some great power that allowed them to push back his forces, but…”

The young man folded his hands, lightly rubbing the back of his right glove. “Legend holds that the Heart of Grima is the key to our divine’s return,” he murmured. “But the Heart played no role in the choice of a new king.”

Emmeryn reached out, gently touching Robin’s shoulder. “I apologize if I overstepped,” she said gently. 

The young man shook his head. “It’s alright. It’s just...the Heart has been a closely guarded secret. I know you mean no ill by asking, but it...it’s daunting to speak of the matter in the halidom, for fear that the knowledge might reach the Exalt.”

“We wouldn’t tell,” Lissa insisted, wrapping her arms around his elbow. “You don’t need to worry about that…”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Robin sighed, patting her fingers gently. “But others might, if they overheard. And that fear is difficult to put aside. Please, forgive me...”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Emmeryn promised. “We understand. And we would never ask you to speak of anything that makes you uncomfortable. Perhaps we should take the rest of the afternoon to relax,” she suggested. “We’ve been working so much lately -- some time to tend more personal needs would do us good. We can reconvene on the treaty discussion tomorrow morning.”

“I would like that,” the young man agreed, mustering a weak smile. “Thank you very much for tea. I hope that we can do this again sometime.”

“It’d better be soon!” Lissa demanded, releasing Robin’s arm rather grudgingly as he tried to stand. 

As the Plegian offered a low bow and retreated from the room, Chrom rose to follow; only on reaching the door did he think to excuse himself, and looked sheepishly back to find his older sister fondly shooing him off. Grinning, the prince hurried out into the hall, glancing up and down the passage and bolting after the gold-trimmed coat turning into the stairway. “Wait up!” he called, hooking the frame of the stone arch--

He very nearly ran headlong into Robin as he rounded the corner. “Sorry!” Chrom laughed, ruffling his hair sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to bowl you over.”

“It’s quite alright,” the young man chuckled. “Did you need something?”

“Oh. U-uhm. I was wondering if you might want to take a walk in the gardens,” he offered. “Get some air. You’ve been cooped up a lot lately, and…I-I mean, I don’t want to interrupt if you have other plans, but...”

Before he could fumble any longer, Robin smiled. “I’d just been planning to do some reading, but a walk sounds lovely,” he agreed. Grinning, Chrom raced down the steps, waiting at the bottom for the young man to catch up before leading the way through the maze of halls and out of the castle. 

A quick glance at the sky made his high spirits sink. Dark clouds hung overhead, and the air felt heavy with the threat of rain as they stepped out onto the palace steps. Perhaps this hadn’t been his best idea...but Robin hardly seemed bothered, crossing the courtyard without a word and entering the gardens at the prince’s side. “I’m really glad you joined us for tea today,” Chrom ventured awkwardly. “It’s been a while since we’ve been able to talk, and…”

“It’s been very busy,” the young man sighed. “I apologize for keeping your sister so occupied -- she’s been so kind to work with me on these diplomatic matters, but I never intended to keep her from spending time with family--”

“What? No! No, it’s not about Emm,” Chrom insisted. “I mean, I’ve missed seeing her around, too, but…”

Robin glanced at him, and the prince fumbled with his words as those honey-colored eyes met his own. “I-it’s...nice to see you again, too,” he mumbled. Gods, how could he admit to the loneliness he’d felt lately without sounding silly--

Something splashed on the back of his neck. Glancing up, another drop landed on his cheek, yet another on his brow as he lowered his head -- and in an instant the whisper of rain surrounded them, muffling Chrom’s low oath as he started back the way they’d come. “The garrison isn’t far, come on--”

Laughter rang through the trees behind him. Looking back, he saw the Plegian standing in the middle of the path, beaming as he spread his arms wide. He met the prince’s eye for just an instant (and the sheer joy in his expression made Chrom’s heart stumble in his chest) -- before turning on his heel and bounding off down the path. 

“W-wait! Not that way!” the prince yelled. If Robin heard, he gave no indication, and Chrom cursed as he sprinted down the cobblestone path, futilely attempting to keep from getting soaked through by the downpour. Despite the cover from the trees lining the trail, with the rain growing steadily heavier he soon lost sight of the young man ahead; only the splash of Robin’s steps and the echo of his laughter kept the prince moving in the right direction through the dimming light. 

Stumbling through the trailing limbs of the willow by the pond, Chrom saw a hazy figure standing by the bank. “Robin?” he called. 

The shape turned as he approached, and the Plegian’s brilliant smile shone through the half dark. “It’s beautiful!” he replied, gesturing to the ripples cascading across the water. 

“You’re getting soaked,” Chrom remarked. “Come on, let’s go inside--”

“Why?” Robin giggled, spinning away along the edge of the lake, close enough for the water to lap at his boots. The prince hurried after him, nearly losing his footing on the slick stones -- but as he stumbled, the young man caught his arm, grinning as he pulled them back toward solid ground. “Careful,” he grinned (and Chrom prayed that the light was too dim to see the color rising in his face)--

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Robin’s head came up, eyes alight as he scanned the clouds, while the prince raked a hand through his bedraggled hair. “I think that’s a pretty good reason, don’t you?”

“I suppose,” the young man sighed, his voice teasing as he linked his arm with Chrom’s. Shaking his head, the prince moved quickly, away from the trees and across the open grounds to the pavilion where they’d taken refuge after the Festival; as they scrambled up the steps, a spiderweb of light raced across the belly of the clouds overhead, and thunder crashed loud enough to leave his ears ringing.

Robin’s laughter replaced the fading echoes. “You really like storms, I take it?” the prince ventured. 

“It doesn’t rain like this where I’m from,” the Plegian replied, leaning against the railing and watching the rain wash over the grass. “Not often, at least: once a year in the desert, perhaps twice. Afterward everything blooms -- the land is awash in color, flowers are everywhere...but to see it like this, so green and lush under the rain, is…”

Chrom sat down on the bench beside Robin, slinging his arms along the railing. Lightning lit the gardens again, followed by a roar that rolled from one end of the sky to the other -- but the young man seemed entirely unconcerned, resting his chin on his folded arms. “When it rained back home, Henry and I would run out to play in it. Sometimes my mother would join in, and Uncle Mustafa would chide us all for it when we finally came in, but...it was such a wonderful feeling, splashing through the puddles as the rain cooled the heat of the day…”

The prince smiled, craning his neck to look at the sky overhead. The rain showed no signs of stopping...but the worst of the lightning seemed to have moved beyond them: as he waited, he saw only the faintest flash in the distance, too far for even the thunder to reach them. “What would you say to heading in before it gets worse again?” he asked. 

“I suppose,” Robin chuckled, stepping back from the bannister. Rising from the bench, Chrom made his way out into the steady downpour at the young man’s side, walking rather than running down the tree-lined path with Robin’s hum carrying over the whisper of rain on the leaves. By the time they finally reached the garrison, they were both thoroughly drenched -- not that the Plegian seemed to mind in the least, dripping his way over to sit on one of the benches by the windows to watch the ripples play through the cobbled courtyard. 

Shaking his head, Chrom moved down the hall to the linen closet, fetching a few towels and doing his best to dry off. Most of his clothes seemed a lost cause, but he still stripped his gloves and worked the worst of the water out of his hair, leaving the damp locks sticking to his cheeks and brow despite his best efforts. Moving back into the common room, he draped another dry blanket over Robin’s head; the young man made a vague noise, lifting a hand to dab idly at his cheeks but seeming uninterested in drying off more than that. “You know, if you don’t dry your hair well you’ll catch a cold,” the prince remarked, gently reaching out to rub the cloth over Robin’s hair. 

“You’re starting to sound like Frederick,” he laughed. 

“W-well, it’s true,” the prince mumbled defensively. To his relief, though, the young man did not argue or try to evade the attention, letting Chrom work without further remark. Though it was hard to tell through the increasingly poor light outside, it seemed like the rain was finally slowing: when he listened carefully, he realized that he could barely hear it on the roof, and through the half-dark he saw guards placing torches beneath the awnings outside the castle doors. At least he wouldn't get soaked any further on the way back…though part of him felt almost disappointed: he'd never seen Robin so happy before, and already he could see the young man’s careful composure returning as the prince removed the towel to check on his pale hair (and though it remained slightly damp, it felt soft as down beneath his fingers).

“I think that should do,” Chrom decided, setting the cloth aside. “Though we should probably think about a change of clothes before dinner.”

“Frederick would most certainly disapprove of you showing up drenched to the bone,” Robin agreed, rising from his seat and casting one final glance out the window before following the prince out of the garrison and into the courtyard. The rain might have alleviated the heavy feeling in the air, but the better part of the heat remained, and as they crossed toward the stairs a few firefly lights winked out of the dim gardens as night began to fall in earnest--

“What was that?”

“What was what?” Chrom asked, looking back to find the young man staring into the trees. 

“That light -- there it is again,” he said, pointing to one of the golden sparks floating out of the dark. 

“It's a firefly,” the prince replied. “You act like you've never seen one before.”

“I haven't,” Robin murmured, lifting a hand as one of the lights flickered near his head. “They're beautiful…”

“Lissa and I used to catch them and put them in glass jars during the summer. We'd sneak them in our rooms and watch them glow after the lamps were snuffed out. They're a little late this year -- usually they're out in force by the Festival, but…” He trailed off, watching the young man stand on tip-toe to cup one of the bugs between his hands. Seeing its flash illuminate his smile as it took to the air again...if the storm had brought them out like this, then he was glad for it all. 

/////

Chrom had almost been getting used to the desert sands: the dunes had become almost familiar, and navigating them had begun to feel like second nature. He marveled over the stark contrast between shifting eastern sands and dense southern woodland as Amber picked her way through the trees, their course guided now by the position of the setting sun; for a time, he’d attempted to make use of Falchion’s glow, but the pale light flickered and shifted confusingly within the forest, and at last he’d given up, keeping his eye instead on the sky still visible through the patchy canopy and using the play of sunlight on the ground to keep them moving in the right direction. Nightfall would make the journey far more difficult, and he prayed they were close to finding their way out into the hills the voice had spoken of…

Amber paused, lifting her head and snorting at the air as her ears swiveled. “What is it?” the prince muttered, turning to scan the shadowed woods around them and gripping the reins slightly tighter. Anything that made the mare nervous was a threat to take seriously--

He heard a noise behind them: rustling leaves, splintering branches, heralding _something_ approaching through the canopy. And odds were good that he did not want to find out just what it was. Bracing himself, Chrom spurred Amber forward, keeping his head down to avoid the low branches as she wove through the forest at a perilous canter that only barely kept them ahead of whatever pursued them. 

The trees began to thin around them. Chrom did not dare look back, even as the sound of wingbeats overtook the snapping of twigs. He could guess what chased them now, and he did not want it to catch them...but even as the mare’s pace turned to a gallop, he saw a silhouette soar over their heads, wheeling and diving toward them -- and he pulled up hard on the reins, stopping them mere feet from where the wyvern crashed to the ground, wings spread wide. She reared up as the beast roared, but did not shy or bolt, simply backing out of range of its jaws while a figure stood on the dragon’s back, brandishing an axe toward horse and rider. “Where did you steal that horse, you Ylissean dog!?” 

Chrom felt his nerves give way, crumbling into a hollow, aching grief. “I didn’t steal her,” he called back, stroking the mare’s neck gently. “I’m only borrowing her for a while.”

“Horse shit,” the man spat. “What did you do with her rider? Where did you leave him?”

The prince swallowed hard. “He’s at the Dragon’s Table.”

In the failing light, Chrom saw a tense grin cut across the wyvern rider’s face. “You’re lying.”

“Do you think Amber would have come with me if it weren’t true?” the prince asked softly. 

The man looked at Chrom’s horse, standing quietly even as the prince let go of the reins. A sharp whistle cut across the air, followed by the click of the wyvern rider’s tongue -- but though her ears swiveled at the sound, the mare did not budge. 

The axe fell to the ground with a dull thud as the man slumped in his dragon’s saddle, raking a hand through his short hair. “ _Fuck._ Damn you, you fucking...you were supposed to be okay, you were supposed to come back with that...that _stupid_ grin plastered on your face because you pulled off the impossible -- gods, bragging would have been better, but he never brags, he just gets that _look_ instead, and h-he...he was supposed to come home. He was supposed to come home smiling, ma knitted a new cloak for him an’ everything to welcome him back…”

“Are you Vasto?” the prince ventured. The man’s sharp eyes narrowed as he lifted his head. “Robin told me about you.” And his mother, for that matter. 

The wyvern rider gave a low, unsteady laugh. “Of course he did. Of course he fucking did. The kid was always running his mouth, spouting some idealistic nonsense or hare-brained thought for how to change things, always trying to make things better for somebody else, always...and what did it get him? It got him _killed,_ far from home, where nobody’d know -- where nobody could even say goodbye.”

“You don’t have to,” the prince murmured. “Say goodbye. I’m looking for a sorcerer with a large shield -- have you seen someone like that? He’s supposed to be somewhere around here, I think...”

“Why are you looking for Ardri?” Vasto grumbled. “I’ve been here a month, nobody’s ever gone looking for him -- he finds someone if he wants something, and gods do I hate it when he finds me. Creepy self-important ass…”

“His shield was made from part of Grima,” Chrom interrupted. “It contains part of Grima’s power, it can bring Robin back--”

“Gods, what nonsense are you spouting?” the wyvern rider scoffed. “Dead is _dead._ You’re Ylissean, so I’ve got no fucking clue what you think we do over here, but we bleed and we hurt and we die just like everybody else, and once you’re dead, _that’s it._ There’s no coming back, and no amount of optimism is going to change that.”

“I know,” the prince whispered, twitching as his arm brushed against Falchion’s pommel. “I didn’t come to Plegia thinking that I could bring him back. I came so Robin could be buried at home. I thought it’s...I thought he’d want that. But there’s a chance to get him _back_ \-- and no matter how slim, I’m going to take it.”

“I guess we’ll be having two funerals, then,” Vasto snorted. His dragon ducked low, lifting its wings as its rider leaned down to retrieve his axe. A shrill whistle pierced the air as the man settled back in the saddle, and the wyvern gave a roar in answer, flapping hard as it launched itself into the air. Amber tossed her head, backing away from the gusts of its wingbeats...but soon enough, it rose out of reach, its dark shape vanishing as the last light faded from the sky. 

Sighing softly, Chrom withdrew Falchion from its sheath and touched his heels to the mare’s sides, spurring her into the hills at a swift trot. Light flowed along the blade, guiding them through the tall grass and woody scrub; with the moon waning toward a crescent now, the pale flame provided much-needed light in the otherwise dark landscape--

Golden sparks flashed around them, an instant before a toxic green glow bubbled up from the ground below. Amber shrieked, lunging forward before the poisonous gas erupted into the air, withering all it touched. Dragging the reins across the mare’s neck, Chrom turned her up the nearest hill, desperate to secure a vantage on the high ground before the sorcerer could unleash another spell. As they reached the crest, the prince pulled back on the reins, shifting his weight back as she reared and wheeled in place -- and as Falchion’s glow flared, he saw a ring of gold sparks swirl in the dark on the hilltop beyond, an instant before noxious fog began to swirl again at their feet. 

Spurring Amber into a gallop, they raced down the side of the hill, weaving a serpentine course down into the valley, the golden runes pursuing them at every turn. Racing around the base of the next hillock, Chrom waited for the next spell to appear -- and as the green glow flickered on the ground, he pulled the reins across the mare’s neck, sending her galloping up the hill. Holding his sword at the ready, he swept the blade out, slicing at the figure hunched at the crest-- 

A looming shadow darted into the path of his swing. An eerie sound rang through the hills as his weapon struck something dark and lustrous...and as the echoes faded, a cold, rattling laugh replaced them, golden sparks knitting into the arcane runes that preceded another spell. Cursing, the prince spurred the mare back down into the valley, staring up at the figure on the crest as the shield spun slowly around him, clearly moved by magic rather than the frail man’s own strength. There had to be a way through it, past it, _something --_ but as the next spell began to bubble on the ground ahead, all he could do was turn Amber back up the hill, watching for any opening, any chance…

Another ring of light blazed ahead, and he turned the mare aside, barely avoiding the jet of toxic gas that followed. As the hiss of the vapors and withering grass faded, though, another sound cut through the air: something large swooping overhead...followed by the bellow of a wyvern. “Hey, Ardri!!” the rider shouted, his axe flashing in the light of the next spell. 

“Vasto!? What are you doing, you traitor!?” the sorcerer shrieked, the shield spinning up as the dragon’s talons raked through the air, barely deflecting the blow -- and leaving him exposed for just an instant as Chrom raced past, his sword cutting through the billowing robes. 

The light faded as the body crumpled, the shield falling to the ground beside it as a dark pool began to spread across the blistered grass. Reining the mare in, Chrom cleaned his blade, searching the sky for any sign of the wyvern rider...but the dragon had vanished, leaving not even a silhouette to blot out the stars. Dismounting carefully, the prince picked his way over to the sorcerer, using Falchion’s light to get his first true glimpse of the shield: it was nearly as tall as he was, and twice as wide, with barely a scratch marring its surface in spite of the wyvern claws and the holy blade that had struck it. 

He glanced back at the mare standing quietly in the grass a few paces away. “Sorry, Amber,” he murmured, sheathing his sword and bracing himself as he took hold of the shield--

Pain tore through him, coursing through his veins as agony crackled across every nerve. Fire filled his lungs as his scream joined the mare’s panicked shriek, burning him from the inside out -- and as he prayed for an end, the darkness took him at last. 


	7. Grima's Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With his quest drawing closer to its end, Chrom sets out to secure the next artifact: an amulet capable of sensing life, made from Grima's once-beating heart. With success seeming so much closer at hand, his memories take him back to better times, reminding him again of what he fights for and allowing him to give heart to another broken member of Robin's family; but the powerful mage he faces seems to hold all the cards, and he will need to take great care of he intends to survive...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take heart in this chapter, because unfortunately this is the last real light we're going to have for a while. As before, slashes (/) represent flashbacks, while double lines (=) separate dreams (in italics) from reality. I hope you enjoy!

_The darkness felt welcoming now, wrapping him in its soft embrace as it flowed along an unseen course. There was no pain here, and somehow even the memory of it seemed dim and hazy, slipping further and further away as he willed himself focus on it. So he stopped trying, letting his mind drift with the shadowy current as it carried him on…_

_“Chrom! Can you hear me?”_

_There it was again. His heart leapt into his throat as that call reached his ears, warm fingers gently cupping his face -- but as hard as he tried, he could not find his voice…_

===

He opened his eyes to see moonlight gleaming across the polished stones before him. Rising slowly to his feet…he wavered for a moment, reaching out to brace himself against the nearest pillar until he found his balance. Gods, how long had he been down?

Not that long. Glancing through the open roof, he saw the moon hovering overhead, little smaller than the last time he'd glimpsed it in the hills. Perhaps he'd just stumbled: he felt steady enough as he moved toward the altar and up the stairs, and his vision was clear as he surveyed the dark pedestals around him. His attention focused on the gleaming shield now leaning upright opposite the spear, its dark surface shining iridescent violet as he turned his head toward it.

One more victory. One less obstacle to worry about. 

_“Fine work, tiny one.”_

The voice seemed to stir the air around him, as though it truly had breath to speak, and a nervous chill crawled down his spine as he glanced back to check the empty shadows once again. _“Far to the northwest, near the furthest edge of the great wall dividing the land, a fortified island weathers the waves that beat the high cliffs, vigilant for any threat from beyond the shore. In that place an amulet is kept, crafted from the heart that once beat within my breast and enchanted to detect the pulse of life around it. The sage who holds it now is a keen strategist and capable mage, but countless lives have been destroyed by his selfish ambitions. Take it from him and return here: without it, your final enemies will have no warning when you come for them…”_

“I understand,” the prince called. As the murmur faded and the air at last went still, he looked down at the altar, reaching out to touch Robin’s cheek. “I can hear you,” he breathed. “I can hear you, Robin -- say something, please…” He knew he’d heard the young man’s voice -- it couldn’t have been just a dream, he was _sure_ that it was something more, something deeper…

But in spite of the color he could see in Robin’s skin, no warmth met his touch, no matter how long he cupped the young man’s face. 

“I’m getting closer,” he promised. “Just wait a little longer. Alright?” Backing away from the altar, Chrom turned and left the rotunda, winding his way down the spiral stair to the base of the tower. Amber’s whicker of greeting as he reached the bottom of the steps brought a smile to his face, and he stroked her neck gently as she trotted up to nose his hair. “I hope I didn’t worry you too much,” he murmured. He chuckled as she snorted, her warm breath ruffling his hair before he moved to pull himself up into the saddle, withdrawing Falchion from its sheath and lifting the sword high to push back the dark. 

Spurring the mare on toward the sands beyond the tower, guided by the soft flow of light across the blade, he let his thoughts wander to what lay ahead. An amulet made from Grima’s heart...getting close would be a challenge, if it could detect the approach of living things. What magic had they used to give it such power? Or was that simply part of the fell dragon’s own abilities? Robin had said, once, that Grima’s eyes could see into the heart of a man…who could say what the fell dragon’s heart had been capable of, back then…

He knew what the Heart of Grima had been capable of in this life, though. His kindness, his compassion, his earnest desire to help everyone, had far outmatched his tactical prowess and whatever raw power he might have had. His easy smiles, the warmth of his laughter, the way his honey-colored eyes shone in his happiest moments...those were the things Chrom had fallen in love with. And those were the things he would fight to bring back to the world, no matter the consequence. 

/////

Chrom stared toward the far end of the table, his chin in his palm, watching Robin carrying on an animated conversation with Sumia. He had no idea what they were talking about (he imagined it was some book they’d both read, but he couldn’t be sure, since he hadn’t been able to follow most of the discussion), but he listened raptly to the young man’s voice, a smile twitching at his lips each time Robin laughed--

The punch to his shoulder, while not painful, knocked him off balance; he only barely managed to catch himself before hitting his chin on the table. “What was that for!?” he demanded, turning to find Sully standing behind him with her hands on her hips. 

“I had to get your attention _somehow_ ,” the cavalier huffed, dropping onto the bench beside him.

“You could have tried calling me,” he replied. 

“I did,” she replied wryly. “I tried ‘Chrom,’ and ‘Captain,’ and ‘Prince Chrom of House Ylisse’ -- I even tried ‘Trashlord,’ and nothing was gettin’ through to you, so I had to take drastic action.”

“I think that was a little _too_ drastic,” the prince muttered, folding his arms before him. “So what did you need from me?”

“I need you to stop mooning over the Plegian,” she replied, propping her elbows on the edge of the table. 

“I’m not _mooning,_ ” he snorted. 

“Chrom, every time you look at him you get the _stupidest look on your face._ It drives me nuts. I mean, I’ve known you pretty much my whole life, at this point, and you’ve made a lot of stupid faces before, but this one is fucking ridiculous. Really, you should be thanking the gods I just punched you in the arm and not the face. I thought about it.”

Chrom made a very rude gesture at her, which she returned in kind. “I mean it, though,” she added. “You ought’a tell him.”

“Tell him what?” he mumbled, lowering his head to his arms and glancing back down the bench to where Robin and Sumia were still deep in conversation. 

“That you _like him,_ dumbass,” Sully huffed, swatting his hair. “Gods, do I really gotta spell _everything_ out for you?”

“He knows I like him,” the prince replied, rolling his eyes. “Last time I checked, we were friends.” He was pretty sure they were -- he _hoped_ they were, at least--

“You know what I fucking mean,” the cavalier muttered, elbowing him in the ribs. “You’re head over heels for him an’ you know it.”

“What are you on about?” Chrom snorted. 

“...you really haven’t figured it out yet, have you.”

“Figured what out?”

“Gods dammit, why are you so hopeless?” Sully groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I’m pretty sure you’d realize if you’d just _think_ about it for a minute.”

“You’re not making any kind of sense,” the prince sighed, pushing himself up from the table. “Look, it’s getting late and I should probably get going.”

“Think about it,” the cavalier called after him as he moved down the table. 

Rolling his eyes, Chrom tapped Robin’s shoulder, feeling a smile drift across his face as the young man looked up at him. “We should head back to the castle. It’s almost time for dinner.”

“I hadn’t realized it was so late,” Robin replied, turning to glance out the window before offering an apologetic bow to Sumia. “I’m sorry to cut our conversation short -- will you still be here tomorrow? I’m certain I can finish off the last volume of _Mad Tales_ if you still have another day or so…”

“Oh, of course!” she giggled, pressing her hands together. “I don’t leave until the end of the week, so take your time -- I’m so excited to hear your thoughts on the ending, it gave me _goosebumps!”_

“And now I’m even more excited,” he chuckled, rising from his place on the bench. “Take care, Sumia.”

“You, too,” she called, waving as the young man lifted a hand in parting and followed Chrom out of the garrison. In spite of the relatively early hour, most of the light in the courtyard came from the torches lit at regular intervals around the cobbled plaza and the covered lamps spaced along the trail through the gardens; it might have been his imagination, but he swore he saw the Plegian glance wistfully toward the dark trees, as though searching for a trace of the fireflies that had long since departed. 

Summer had passed swiftly into autumn while Robin and Emmeryn refined their diplomatic approach, and as crops ripened throughout the halidom the harvest had soon occupied everyone's minds. Their father, too, had turned his attention to the fall bounty: rather than consider the terms his oldest daughter brought before him to extend the peace between Ylisse and Plegia, he set off daily into the forests to hunt. Even without a deep understanding of politics, Chrom had recognized the snub for what it was. So in turn, the prince had shunned the sport at every opportunity, instead joining Lissa and Robin in touring the Ylisstol markets, inviting the young man on outings with the Shepherds, exploring the gardens and grounds with him, and learning ever more about the halidom’s western neighbor through the frequent teas and meals they shared. 

As they crossed the courtyard, a trumpet sounded behind them, and Chrom felt his stomach knot. Taking gentle hold of Robin’s arm, the prince drew him toward the garden path, glancing only once over his shoulder as the Exalt’s hunting party trotted through the gates before retreating beyond their sight. He had no interest in crossing paths with his father if he could at all help it -- and even less in subjecting his friend to yet another encounter with Ylisse’s spiteful ruler…

“Is everything alright?” 

The young man’s voice startled Chrom from his thoughts. “Fine,” he replied automatically, mustering a weak grin as he met Robin’s eye. “I figured it wouldn’t hurt to let them finish unloading their catch. The dogs can get over-excited about being back, and we’d be dodging staff heading out to help anyway, so...we can wait until things quiet down a little. There should still be some time before dinner, anyway.”

His tension eased as the young man smiled back at him. “That seems sensible -- though I’m not used to this cold yet,” he chuckled, pulling his coat closer around him as his breath fogged in the lamplight. 

“Doesn’t Plegia have a winter?” the prince asked. 

“In a sense...though it’s still strange to see the trees changing color -- in Plegia, yellow leaves usually mean a plant is dying,” Robin laughed. “As our nights grow longer, the days grow cooler, but they never get like this.”

“You’ll need a warmer coat soon -- this isn’t even as cold as it gets,” Chrom chuckled. “Just wait until it snows. We usually see at least a few inches by midwinter...”

To his surprise, the young man’s smile faded, rather than brightening. “I didn’t think I would be here so long,” he murmured. “I’d imagined I would be home well before Grima’s Night, but...given the slow progress on negotiations…”

The prince reached out, laying a hand gently on Robin’s shoulder. “What’s Grima’s Night like?” he asked. 

“It’s joyous,” the young man murmured. “In Plegia...we believe that when someone dies, their soul joins Grima in the shadow of the world. The longest night of the year is when Grima’s power peaks, and all those who have been buried are able to return to the world and reunite with their families. The day is spent cooking, preparing decorations, setting places -- we take items that our departed family members favored in life and use them to mark their seats...at sunset, there’s a ceremony invoking Grima to return the spirits to their families for the night, and as the last light leaves the sky everyone gathers together with their friends and families -- living and spirits both -- to talk and laugh about what’s happened in the past year. The celebration lasts until dawn, when Grima’s power wanes and the souls must depart for another year -- not everyone stays so late, of course, most of the children are abed far sooner, but...it’s so wonderful and warm…”

“It sounds amazing -- Grima’s Night here is a children’s festival, but...you know, you could celebrate here with us,” Chrom suggested. “The way you do in Plegia, I mean.”

Robin cast a startled glance toward him. “Really?”

“Why not?” the prince chuckled. “I want to see it. And I bet Emm and Lissa would want to join in, too.”

The young man beamed, his honey-colored eyes crinkling at the corners. “Thank you,” he said, his voice rife with warmth. “It’s...I’ve never been away from home this long. But I’m glad I came. I’m happy I could be here, and...I’m so grateful that I was able to meet you.”

Chrom felt his heart swell at those words, his throat tightening as a smile overtook his expression. Struggling to contain the sudden rush of joy that threatened to overwhelm him, he swallowed hard, searching for the words to reply…

“I love you.”

It hit him with the shattering force of a hammer blow. The loneliness he'd felt so often lately when Robin wasn't nearby, even in the company of the Shepherds; the way his presence alone seemed to lift the prince's mood, or at least ease his mind; the flustered awkwardness that so often overcame him when the young man smiled at him...gods, Sully had been exactly right, hasn't she? 

Robin stared at him, the silence stretching as Chrom’s mind grappled with the realization. He heard the young man draw an unsteady breath, a hesitant smile touching the corners of his lips. “C-come again?” he breathed. 

“Robin, I…” The prince paused, raking a hand through his hair as he fumbled for words. “W-when you first arrived I didn't know what to expect. I'd heard…all the stories from my father, and I'd never met anyone from Plegia before myself, but...you were nothing like he said. You're…you’re one of the kindest people I've ever met, and one of the smartest beyond Miriel, you're always trying to help, even in little ways like just talking about where you're from so we can learn, and...I never felt like anything was missing before you came. But the more time I spend with you -- th-the more I get to know you, the more I feel like there is. When you're not close, there's this...emptiness. And when you're here, I feel -- I feel whole. I didn't know what it meant before. But I think I do now. I love you, Robin.” Such small words, but the weight of them left him breathless as he reached out to take the young man's fingers--

“You can't.”

Robin snatched his arm away, clutching his right hand to his chest, and Chrom felt his heart begin to break. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to...i-if you don't feel that way about me, that's…”

The young man laughed, a tiny, broken sound too much like a trembling sob. “That's not it.”

“...it’s not?” he repeated, the faintest spark of hope kindling in his breast to keep the mounting despair at bay. 

Robin shook his head. “Gods, how many times did I think…all those outings, those talks, those walks in the garden, and I told myself time and again that it was nothing but courtesy, that it couldn't be more, that…”

A smile crept back across the prince's face as he stepped closer, laying a hand gently on the young man's arm. “Why not? Is it my father?”

He felt a tremor run through the Plegian at the mere mention. “In part.”

A fresh wave of defiant ire pushed back any lingering sorrow. “He won't stand in the way,” Chrom promised. “If he tries I'll…I’ll find some way, I swear, you'll be safe--"

“It's not just the Exalt,” Robin whispered. “It can't…no matter how much you or I might wish it, it's...it’s not possible.”

“...but you would wish it?” he pressed gently. The young man nodded silently, covering his mouth with a trembling hand as the prince drew closer still. “What else is standing in the way, then?”

Robin looked at him, seeming to struggle with words -- before gesturing for Chrom to follow as he hurried down the shadowed paths, out of the trees, and around the edge of the lake to the softly lit pavilion that overlooked it. Moving up the steps, the young man scanned the open grounds beyond; when the prince gestured to the bench, though, Robin only shook his head, running a hand nervously through his pale hair. “Do...do you remember when we spoke of the Heart of Grima?” he asked softly. 

Chrom nodded, watching with increasing unease as the young man began to pace, rubbing the back of his gloved hand in a familiar nervous gesture. “You said that it was the key to Grima’s return. Right?”

“I did,” Robin agreed. “But...there’s more to it than that. The Heart isn’t...some artifact that gives Plegians power, not some spell that will raise the fell dragon, it...it’s a brand. Like the one on your arm.” 

“I thought you said that Plegians didn’t have brands,” the prince said. “That...the whole reason you had diviners was because there wasn’t a mark of who should rule.”

“You’re right,” the young man replied, his voice unsteady. “I did. And it’s true. For a thousand years, Plegia used diviners to understand Grima’s will and decide who should rule in His stead. But...but there was a legend that someday Grima would return. When Naga and her chosen marched to Grima's lands, He Saw their intent and knew His End approached, and with it that hardships awaited those who followed Him, so He took a drop of His Blood and divided it among all His people, giving them all a tiny piece of His Power to help them survive the trials to come. It’s...there’s a belief that someday, from His Blood, Grima’s Mark would appear on the one who bears His Heart, as proof that they are the one meant to guard and guide Plegia once more as Grima did before His Fall.”

Chrom drew in a slow breath, trying to steady his nerves. “...so...the rumors Emm mentioned…”

“Grima’s Heart was born into the world,” Robin whispered, his voice shaking as he removed his gloves and lifted his right hand. “And that’s why you can’t love me.”

The six-eyed mark seemed to glow against the Plegian’s skin, soft violet under the lamplight that illuminated the pavilion’s interior. The prince stared at it for a moment as Robin’s fingers curled into a trembling fist, his shoulders hunching and his eyes brimming with tears…

Stepping forward, Chrom gently took the young man’s hand, stroking the brand with the tips of his fingers and smiling at the warmth that met his touch. “I don’t see the problem,” he murmured. 

“How can you say that?” Robin balked. “Even if your father weren’t an obstacle, the leaders of your church would be up in arms -- Naga’s Blessed with Grima’s Heart? It’s...it's nothing short of sacrilege, given what the first Exalt is celebrated for. And there’s every possibility that your divine would forbid it -- she still watches over her people, if she discovered what I am she would never--”

“Who you are,” the prince interrupted. “And if she found out, she would never stand in the way.”

He smiled in the face of the young man’s stare. “I meant what I said: you’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. And I think it says a lot that the Heart of Grima came to Ylisse like this: not to wage war, but to make peace; not to harm Naga’s blessed, but to ally with them; not to destroy the halidom, but to help save it. How could she be opposed to someone like that?”

Robin’s shoulders at last began to relax as he met Chrom’s eye. “You’re not afraid?”

“Of what?” the prince grinned. “You’ve saved me more than once. I feel safer with you beside me than I do alone anymore.”

The young man chuckled, lifting his free hand to dry his eyes. “Most Ylisseans would think you mad,” he warned. 

“I don’t care,” Chrom shrugged. “They’re not the ones who know you, are they? So I think I'm a better judge than they are.” As Robin shook his head, the prince rubbed the six-eyed brand with his thumb, his smile warming as the young man met his eye. “...can I kiss you?” he asked softly. 

Under the soft lamplight, he swore he saw a blush of color flood Robin’s cheeks. “You would want to?”

“More than anything,” Chrom agreed solemnly. A smile flashed across the young man’s face, his free hand shyly rubbing the back of his neck...before he nodded. Lifting Robin’s marked hand, the prince brushed his lips across the center of the brand -- and as the young man’s laughter finally returned, Chrom lifted his head and caught Robin in a gentle kiss that banished every trace of the autumn chill. 

/////

As Amber made her way along the high cliffs that marked Plegia’s western coast, Chrom briefly worried that the only way to the island would be by boat -- and who could he ask to take him across? But as the ridge sloped down toward the ocean, he was relieved to find a narrow land bridge stretching between the mainland and the fortress beyond, the wan moonlight shining off the wet stones. The mare picked her way carefully along the path, the blowing sea spray rapidly chilling them both to the bone as they crossed the bay and entered the valley leading to the fort. While the high walls provided shelter from the wind and waves, it offered no protection from the cold...though his shivering had just as much to do with the eerie raven calls that echoed through the dark as they passed stands of skeletal trees. 

The fortress loomed at the end of the canyon, an imposing facade that looked to have been carved into the very stone of the island itself. As they neared the entry, the prince tensed, watching the armored figures posted at the doors with wary attention...but they showed no signs of moving, even as Amber paced through the open gates. Offering a slight nod to them, he scanned the high walls for sentries, only to find the parapets empty; perhaps the guards above were occupied looking over the ocean beyond, rather than back toward the safety of home. 

A quiet stable stood just outside the entrance of the fort, and the prince paused long enough to brush the salt from Amber’s hide and dry her as best he could, leaving her to eat and drink her fill at the troughs in an empty stall. After all she’d done to help him in this quest, it seemed the least he could do for her. Making his way back to the silent courtyard, Chrom approached the guards...and realized that both were fast asleep, propped up on their spears; one stirred and mumbled something incomprehensible, but settled without so much as opening his eyes as the prince entered the dark fortress. 

He drew Falchion quietly from its sheath as he reached the center of the foyer, pointing it toward each of the dimly lit halls that branched from the entryway. The pale flame flickered and flowed along the blade, brightening as he swept it across the central passage, and he carefully moved ahead, alert for any patrolling soldiers (though he prayed he would not need to fight any but the sage)...

The blade’s light gleamed off something at the mouth of a corridor branching from the main hall. Pausing, he made his way tentatively toward it, lifting the sword slightly higher...to see another guard sprawled across the stones, snoring quietly as she snuggled her javelin. “Gods, what happened here?” he muttered to himself. How in the world could everyone in the fort be asleep at their posts like this--

“No _caws_ for alarm,” a voice giggled behind him -- and Chrom lunged away, shifting into a defensive stance as he turned…

A young man with a mop of white hair and a raven on his shoulder stood grinning in Falchion’s glow, his empty hands raised in a gesture of peace. “Oh, wow, you look terrible,” he laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to make trouble: a little birdie told me an Ylissean was coming, so I figured I’d get all the guards to take a nap.”

The prince lowered his sword, glancing at the sleeping soldier beside them. “Are...are you Henry?” he ventured. 

The young man clapped excitedly, bouncing in place and sending the bird fluttering up to his head. “Oh, wow, how’d you know? Can you read minds? What am I thinking now?”

Judging by Robin’s stories, probably a terrible pun, though he didn’t dare try to guess what kind. “I’m not a mind-reader,” he replied. “Robin told me about you.”

“Ooooh, you _are_ Chrom!” the young man grinned, tilting his head and sending the bird hopping back to his shoulder. “Robin wrote about you! What are you doing all the way out here? We’re a loooong way from the halidom.”

“I’m...I’m looking for someone,” Chrom said. “A sage with an amulet that can sense life. Do you know where he is?”

“Sure, I know where Excellus is,” the dark mage nodded. “Why?”

“I need it to help Robin,” he explained, choosing his words carefully and praying that the young man wouldn’t press…

“Nobody can help Robin anymore, silly,” Henry giggled. “Robin’s gone.”

The prince felt his heart twist and threaten to break. “How do you know?” 

Henry reached into his tunic and withdrew a tiny figurine, holding it out in the palm of his hand. Chrom recognized it instantly: simple though it was, the soft white hair and dark coat with purple eye spots on the sleeves were unmistakable...but as the mage’s fingers trembled, it came apart, the two halves settling at odd angles even as he tried to tease them back together. “Robin helped me make it,” Henry sniffed, his smile shaking nearly as much as the rest of him. “I wanted to go so bad -- Robin couldn't hex a hair off a honeybee, and I thought he'd need help on his trip, but...but he said I had to stay, and helped me make this so I wouldn’t worry about him, because as long as he was okay it would be, too. But...but it broke. It broke, and...and I tried so hard to put it back together, I tried every hex I know, everything I could th-think of, but...b-but when something’s broken like this, you ca-an’t fix it, even with the be- _est_ magic, it just won’t go back toge-ether…”

As the raven fluffed its feathers and nuzzled the dark mage’s cheek, the prince lay a hand gently on his other shoulder. “It's okay, Henry. I’m going to fix things. I promise.”

“How?” the mage whimpered. 

“I need to get that amulet,” Chrom replied. “Can you help me?”

Henry sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Excellus has it,” he mumbled. “He’s probably on the top floor, in the big room where all the maps are. But I don’t know if my hex put him to sleep. He’s stronger than the guards...”

“That’s okay,” the prince chuckled. “I didn’t expect it would be easy.” None of the others had been…

As he turned, he felt a cool hand touch his arm. Looking down, he watched as the mage traced the dark veins on his skin, his smile fading into a puzzled frown. “What magic have you been using?” Henry whispered. 

“It’s Grima’s power,” Chrom murmured. “It’s what will bring Robin back.”

Henry nodded, slowly at first, then more vigorously, digging into his tunic and producing a strange object on a long cord that he shoved toward the prince. Chrom took it hesitantly, examining it in the dim torchlight: it looked like little more than a ring of woven grass, animal hair, and feathers, little bigger than the palm of his hand and soft to the touch. “What is this?” he asked. 

“It’s a hex,” the dark mage chirped. “It’s what I use when I wanna sneak past Excellus. You’ve just gotta hold it real close -- it only works once, though, and it doesn’t last long, so you’ve gotta be careful and make it count.”

“I will,” the prince swore, slipping the pendant over his neck and tucking it under his shirt. “Thank you, Henry.”

The young man’s smile returned as he rocked back on his heels. “Good luck. We’re counting on you,” he giggled as the raven gave a hoarse croak. Waving over his shoulder, Chrom continued down the hall, following Falchion’s glow up a twisting flight of stairs to the highest floor of the fortress. He stuck close to the wall as he moved toward the farthest doorway, alert for any sign of movement, any trace of the golden light that preceded a spell…

But even as he moved beyond the threshold, he found nothing at all. The blade glowed bright, but he only saw an empty room, lit by torches spaced too far apart to banish the shadows, let alone see the maps hung on the walls between them--

The runes flared around him with a blinding flash, heat rising from the stones beneath his feet. He had no time to think: instinctively lunging forward, he broke through the spell, feeling the magic sear his skin before a gout of fire erupted behind him. Scrambling back to his feet, the prince shifted into a defensive stance, whirling toward the doorway he’d entered to find a frog-faced man sneering at him from beside the entrance, drumming his fingers on the cover of his tome. 

“Did you really think you could sneak up on me?” the sage chuckled. “You’re the mysterious assassin hunting down the Grimleal, I take it. If that’s your idea of ‘stealth,’ it’s a wonder you managed to get anywhere at all. Though...I suppose it doesn’t matter, since you’ll get no further.”

The man cackled, motes of light sparking around him and twisting into arcane runes as Chrom charged, desperate to prevent him from completing another spell; he managed no more than a few steps before the floor beneath him began to glow, searing his boots as he dove out of the way of yet another pillar of flame. He dared not pause: collecting his feet, he raced forward, turning his shoulder guard into the charge as he held Falchion at the ready--

“Fool.”

He felt the heat sear his clothes and dodged aside again -- but not far enough, the molten fire splashing wildly and scorching his armor. Gods, how was he supposed to succeed if he couldn’t get close?

All he could do was try. Shifting once more into an attacking stance, he trained his full attention on the sage, ignoring the man’s smug leer as they paced around one another. “It’s bothered me for quite a while, you know,” the sage remarked. “Ever since the rumors arrived that someone had been eliminating Grimleal. Who would do such a thing? Who would seek to murder Grima’s most faithful followers? I suppose the answer really should have been obvious: of course it would be an Ylissean. And one of Naga’s line, no less. Won’t your blood make for a fitting sacrifice to herald the fell dragon’s return?”

“Not if you burn it all,” Chrom growled. 

“That is a fine point,” the sage giggled, tapping the cover of his spellbook. “I suppose I need to leave at least some part of you intact, then, don’t I?”

He felt the magic swirl around him, the heat burning his lungs as the flames roiled within the circle. He jumped back -- but the force of the blast threw him off balance, and he fell hard to the floor, rolling away from the fire and curling briefly on the cool stones, struggling to catch his breath as he clutched at his chest…

He felt the ring of grass beneath his shirt. Only one chance...he would have to make the most of it. Gripping the ring tight, he pressed it to his skin, holding as still as he could manage. A heavy silence fell over the room, untouched even by his own shallow gasps; it took him a moment to realize that in spite of how ragged they felt, he could not hear his breath at all, nor the pulse pounding in his skull as he willed himself not to move.

The sage’s cruel laugh finally broke the stillness, accompanied by the shift of heavy robes across smooth stone. “I’m almost disappointed,” Excellus sighed. “I thought one of Naga’s branded would put up more of a fight. But even still, think of what Master Validar might accomplish with Naga’s blood for the ritual…”

Chrom drew in an unsteady breath, gradually tightening his grip on Falchion’s hilt as he waited for the footsteps to draw closer. He heard the man pause, listened to his strained hum as he crouched, felt a clammy hand grip his shoulder -- but before the sage could try to move him, the prince twisted, driving the sword through the man’s chest. 

Excellus gaped, mouthing something soundless and incomprehensible even as his knees gave out, his body collapsing heavily to the stones. Chrom pushed himself away, fighting down the bile that burned in the back of his throat as the overpowering stench of blood made him retch. As his gasps evened, he pressed a shaking hand to his chest, patting the place where Henry's charm rested…only to feel nothing at all. He pulled the cord over his neck, touching the loose ends and rubbing the dark streaks of ash they left on his gloves: no wonder he'd only had one chance…

Drawing in a deep breath to steady himself, the prince made his way back to the body, pulling his sword free and cleaning the blade with shaking hands before crouching beside his fallen foe. It took him a moment to locate the jewel among the voluminous robes and glittering chains that adorned the man’s neck. In truth, only the faint glow of it, dark in spite of Falchion’s light, allowed him to find it at all. It seemed a simple thing: a blood-red stone the size of his fist in a plain gold setting...but he had no doubt that its appearance belied its true power. Sheathing his sword, the prince took hold of the amulet, steeling himself as he lifted the chain free of Excellus’ neck--

Agony tore through his hand, radiating up his arm and through his chest. The pain screamed through his skull, deafening him to the cry that echoed through the chamber around him, relentless, all-consuming -- and then the darkness surrounded him, and silence once more reigned. 


	8. Grima's Feathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With only two trials left in his quest, Chrom sets out to claim the next artifact: a cloak made from Grima's feathers, held by a woman twisted to evil by another's ambitions. As close as the end seems, the prince takes heart as best he can from his memories, refusing to waver even under the vicious accusations of another bereft member of Robin's clan; but with no easy way to reach his airborne foe, let alone counter her magic, his trials seem only to grow more difficult as they near their end...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now things are just going to get steadily worse. Once again, slashes (/) represent flashbacks, while double lines (=) separate dreams (in italics) from reality. I hope you enjoy!

_He felt an indescribable sense of relief as the shadows enveloped him, warm and velvet soft. The distant memories of pain, of fire, of fear, faded from his mind, leaving only peace and a quiet stillness disturbed only by the subtle flow of darkness around him…_

_“Chrom! Answer me, please!”_

_The voice was louder now. He felt the unmistakable touch of slender fingers brushing across his brow before familiar hands cupped his face, warmer even than the shadows that surrounded him -- but though he fought to find his voice, he could make no sound..._

===

He stirred slowly, shivering as the chill bit deep into his skin. “Robin…”

No answer came. Forcing his eyes open, Chrom blinked at the pillars that supported the roof of the Dragon’s Table...and breathed a wavering sigh, rising once more to his feet. His movements felt strange and slow, as though he’d spent too long asleep -- but glancing through the skylight, the moon’s narrow crescent seemed little smaller than when he’d last seen it over the island fortress. At the very least, his stiffness eased as he made his way up the stairs to the platform before the altar; scanning the pedestals surrounding the dais, his gaze fell on the amulet hanging on an ornate stand across from the crystal orb, its soft aura pulsing in the wan moonlight. 

Another success. Only two trials remained. 

_“Fine work, tiny one.”_

He shivered as the voice filled the room, rumbling through the stones beneath his feet. _“Northeast of here, a castle stands atop a great mesa, keeping watch over the place where my bones lay mired in the sand. Within its walls a cloak is kept, woven through with my feathers and granting illusory speed upon whoever wears it. The woman who holds it is a pitiable thing, gifted with great talent but twisted by another’s wicked designs into a cruel form beyond easy reach. Take it from her and return here: without it, your final foe will have no defenses nor deceptions to employ against you…”_

“I understand,” the prince called. As the hum fell silent and the vibration in the stones once more went still beneath him, Chrom turned his gaze to the body on the altar, reaching out to smooth the pale hair peeking from beneath the gold-trimmed hood. “You’re there, aren’t you?” he whispered, his vision blurring as his eyes began to burn. “Please, Robin…”

The silence stretched as his shaking fingers brushed the young man’s cold brow. Though he felt no warmth, Chrom could swear that there was color in his skin...though as his gaze traveled up the dark veins winding through his own pale arms, he wondered if Robin’s color seemed improved only compared to his own pallor. 

Swallowing hard, the prince brushed the backs of his fingers against the young man’s cheek. “I’m nearly there,” he breathed. “It won’t be long now. I promise.” Turning away, he wiped the cold trails from his face, hurrying out of the room and down the steps to the base of the tower, smiling as a familiar whicker greeted him. “You made it, too, I see,” he chuckled, stroking Amber’s nose as she paced up the cobbled path to meet him. “I’m glad. I hope you got a good rest, at least: we’ve got a ways to go.” 

She snorted in reply, nuzzling his hair briefly before he pulled himself up into the saddle; withdrawing Falchion from its sheath, the prince turned them toward the desert once again, spurring her toward the dunes. Though his clothes were long dry, the chill wind still bit through, leaving him shivering as the mare galloped through the shifting sands. He was too close now to let discomfort stand in his way, though: only two more enemies to face, two more artifacts to obtain to complete his quest...and then the cold would be little more than a nuisance, with Robin once more safe and warm within his arms.

/////

“So does this mean you're really the King of Plegia?” Lissa asked, bouncing excitedly on the cushion next to Emmeryn. 

“No,” Robin chuckled, tracing the violet brand with the tips of his fingers. It had taken some time and no small amount of gentle encouragement to coax the young man into revealing the mark to the princesses -- though Chrom was smugly pleased (and deeply relieved) by his sisters’ enthusiastic response. “Not yet, at least. If I can secure peace with the Exalt, though, I imagine the coronation will take place shortly after I return home.”

“Why were you not crowned when the last king passed?” Emmeryn inquired. “You mentioned that it was quite recent…”

“When I was fifteen,” Robin agreed. “I was too young at the time to assume the role, so the diviners selected a regent to rule in the interim."

“How is fifteen too young?” the prince protested. Ylisse had crowned far younger Exalts in the past...

The young man hummed, turning a fond smile on Chrom (and the prince felt his heart flutter as those warm honey-gold eyes crinkled at the corners). “Well, in Plegia, we measure our lives in sixes. Eighteen is considered the age of transition, when a child is viewed as an adult in the eyes of the community. This brand marked me from birth as Grima’s Heart returned to His people -- there was no doubt in anyone’s minds that I would come to the throne...but the war with Ylisse was raging at the time, and it seemed ill-advised to have the king cede the crown to an infant. So it was decided instead that he would continue to rule until I reached my majority, at which point he would step aside for the Heart; since he was already quite old, though, and no one was certain how many more years he had, he and the Grimleal hierophant agreed that should the king pass before the transition, a regent would be chosen by the diviners to rule in the interim.

“Of course, when I did reach my majority, Ylisse had resumed its aggressions, and there was great concern about adding the burden of a war to the weight of the crown I would inherit,” he sighed, idly rubbing the mark. “So all agreed that the transition should wait until the fighting ceased -- which it did last winter, though only as a temporary armistice, rather than a true peace. And it seemed...ill-advised to shift power so dramatically when there was little more than a lull in the conflict, for fear that it could invite another attack. So I elected to delay my own coronation and come to the halidom to plead for peace, in hopes that by securing a treaty, both our nations could begin to heal. Though...that has proven more difficult than I’d anticipated.”

“You have my word that I will do all I can to help,” Emmeryn promised as Chrom reached out to touch Robin's hand. “If I could speed our progress, I would, but…my hope is that our father’s attention will be less divided now that winter is setting in and the animals are retreating.”

“Please don’t worry -- I know that these delays are not your doing,” Robin assured her. “And truly, I cannot thank you enough for your help and your kindness. All of you,” he added, smiling at Chrom and Lissa. 

The youngest princess beamed, bouncing up from her seat as the young man pulled his gloves back on. “We should be thanking you for coming!” she giggled, snuggling down into the space beside him and flinging her arms around him. “I’m really glad you did. And I’m glad you’re staying longer -- I-I mean, I want there to be peace, I do, but...but I’m gonna miss you when you have to leave. Do you think you’ll still be able to visit, even after you’re king?” she mumbled, peering up at him. 

“I’m certain I’ll be able to think of something to bring me back,” Robin chuckled, gently returning her embrace. “Perhaps you could even come to visit Plegia -- I’d love to show you my home, as you’ve shown me yours.”

Lissa’s face lit up at the prospect as Emmeryn laid a hand gently on the young man’s shoulder. “We would be honored,” she smiled. “Until that day comes, though, you are always welcome here with us.”

As Robin drew breath to speak, a knock drew their attention. Even as Chrom rose to answer, the door opened and Frederick strode inside, his arms folded behind his back. “I do apologize for the intrusion, but His Grace the Exalt has requested your presence, Milady Emmeryn,” he announced. “And I believe Lady Maribelle is looking for you, Milady Lissa,” he added. 

“I suppose we must cut this visit short,” Emmeryn sighed, rising from her seat. 

“That’s alright,” the Plegian chuckled as the youngest princess grudgingly released him, accepting Chrom’s hand and rising to his feet. “I’ll see you both again soon, I’m sure.” 

The royals and their foreign guest parted ways in the hall beyond the parlour, Emmeryn and Lissa moving one way down the corridor while the prince and Robin headed in the opposite direction...and much to Chrom’s dismay, the clanking of armor pursued them. Gods, the last thing he wanted was to spend the afternoon with the great knight hovering over his shoulder--

“Frederick?” he heard his older sister call. “I don’t mean to be a bother, but could you tell me where my father wishes to meet? Is he taking audiences in the throne room, or…”

“Do forgive me, Milady,” the great knight apologized, his steps retreating back up the hall. “He actually wishes for you to join him in the state room…”

“Let’s go,” Chrom whispered, ducking into the stairwell and hurrying down the steps. He heard the young man’s footsteps following in his wake and paused as he reached the lower floor, waiting for Robin to catch up -- only to snare him in a warm embrace as he reached the bottom, pulling him into a deep kiss that served only to muffle, rather than silence, his laughter. 

“This hardly seems the time or place for that,” the young man protested. “What if someone sees?”

“No one’s going to see,” the prince murmured, nuzzling Robin’s jaw. “Look, there’s nobody out there.” Setting the young man back on his feet, Chrom moved out into the hall, gesturing grandly to the deserted corridor as he glanced out the windows…

He turned, feeling a smile tug at his mouth even as he tried to hide it. “Come with me,” he said, linking his arm with Robin’s and making his way through the quiet maze of hallways and into the castle foyer. “Close your eyes,” he insisted. 

“Alright,” the young man chuckled, agreeably going so far as to cover his face with his gloved hands. Pushing the doors open, the prince slipped an arm around Robin’s waist, guiding him out onto the top of the palace steps. “Gods, it’s cold!” the Plegian shivered, pressing slightly closer against Chrom’s side. 

“It is,” the prince agreed. “Open your eyes.”

The young man lowered his hands, pulling his coat closer around him as he blinked out at the courtyard...and Chrom felt his heart swell when Robin’s face lit up at the sight of snowflakes drifting down from the pale sky. “Is this snow?” he laughed, stretching his hand out to catch the falling motes. 

“I told you we usually had some before Grima’s Night,” the prince agreed, lifting his cloak and draping it over Robin’s shoulders; as the young man took hold of it, Chrom’s arm slipped down to curl around his waist, drawing him close and warm before moving down the stairs and into the gardens. “It makes for hard travel later, once there’s a few feet of it on the ground, but it is pretty. When we were younger, Lissa and I would sneak out of our lessons when we saw it snowing -- we’d have snowball fights on the grounds, build snowmen in the courtyard...Emm couldn’t always get away, but she’d always cover for us. And once it got dark, we’d all snuggle up by the fire with big blankets and cocoa...”

“It sounds amazing,” Robin murmured. While only a thin blanket of snow had collected on the stones so far, it still served to soften the sound of their steps as they passed beneath the trees, their breaths billowing in the dim light. Smiling softly, the Plegian blew a great cloud of fog toward the branches over their heads, his laughter seeming to reach no further than the prince’s ears. 

“Looks like you really are the fell dragon,” Chrom teased. 

The young man hummed, glancing coyly the prince. “And what does Naga’s blessed intend to do?”

Chrom tried to pull Robin closer -- but the young man ducked away, flashing a mischievous grin toward the prince before bounding off down the path. “No fair!” Chrom called, racing after him through the falling snow. The shadow of his coat and the ringing of his laughter led the prince on through the winding paths until he finally reached the fountain at the heart of the gardens; the arcs of water that splashed into the pool through the heat of summer were now absent, and a film of ice covered the dark surface as he followed the footprints around the far side, careful not to make a sound as he snuck up on the Plegian...

He paused, frowning as he saw the prints connect in a circle with the trail that had brought them from the trees: he recognized his own tracks joining Robin’s, curving around the side of the fountain -- where could he have gone?

He got his answer as warm arms wrapped around him from behind, drawing him into the soft folds of the gold-trimmed coat. “Seems you have the upper hand this time,” the prince grinned over his shoulder. 

“I might agree if I weren't frozen,” the young man mumbled against Chrom's nape. 

“You feel warm to me,” the prince replied, carefully shifting within Robin's arms; as the young man snuggled close against his chest, Chrom wrapped his cape around them again -- but as he touched a kiss to Robin’s brow, he felt the chill prickle of ice on the tip of his nose from the snowflakes hidden in Robin’s hair. “No wonder you feel cold, though, your head’s frozen.”

The prince laughed as man in his arms tilted his head back, as though trying to see the offending ice. Freeing one hand, Chrom gently brushed the half-frozen mess free from Robin’s locks before tugging the hood up to cover his hair...and leaning close, brushing his lips against the young man’s cheek. “There,” the prince murmured. “How’s that?”

“A bit better,” Robin chuckled. A shiver went through them both as a cold wind swirled the snow in the air around them -- but Chrom only pulled the young man closer, catching him in a deep kiss that chased away the chill, warming him down to his core. Tightening his embrace, he leaned in again--

Robin’s fingers pressed against his lips, and the prince turned a look of puzzled disappointment on the smiling face. “Frederick’s coming,” the young man whispered -- and sure enough, when Chrom stopped to listen, he could hear the clanking of the great knight’s armor approaching through the trees. Groaning miserably (and muffling the sound in Robin’s shoulder, smiling at the fond laughter that filled his ears), he took a polite step back, turning just in time to see his warden stride into the plaza. 

“Ah, I’ve been looking for you, Milord,” Frederick remarked. “His Grace the Exalt has requested your presence at the banquet.”

“What banquet?” Chrom asked. 

“The one currently in progress in the state room,” the great knight replied. “Though it is not a formal affair, might I suggest a change of clothes before you make an appearance?”

“I’d rather not attend,” the prince muttered. 

“Milord, such petulance is unbecoming,” Frederick cautioned. “Your father does not make such requests lightly.” 

Which, Chrom knew, meant that it was actually an order. “Fine,” he muttered, taking hold of the Plegian’s hand as the great knight turned to guide them from the gardens. The gentle pressure of Robin’s grip soothed at least some of his ire, and the prince silently laced their fingers together as they made their way through the courtyard and back into the castle. Pausing only long enough to fetch a pair of cloths from a nearby linen closet, Frederick escorted them through the palace halls, chattering on while the young men behind him dried their hair and brushed the last of the snow from their garments...but as they passed a branching corridor, Chrom lifted a hand to his lips, drawing them silently away while the great knight’s monologue faded behind them. 

The trappings and decor grew increasingly elaborate as they approached a set of ornately carved doors inlaid with silver leaf. Nodding slightly to the lancers posted to either side as they opened the way, the prince strode past the threshold...and stopped, frowning at the assembled nobles clustered throughout the room. Too many of them turned to see who the new arrivals were, and he stepped carefully in front of Robin to shield him from view--

“Psst! Chrom!” 

The prince turned to see his younger sister waving to him from alongside one of the banquet tables. Hurrying toward her with the Plegian close behind, he offered a slight nod to Maribelle as the duchess dipped into a polite curtsy. “What is all this?” he asked, scanning the wide array of delicacies spread through the state room, from roast pheasant and boar to treacle tarts and candied fruits. 

“His Grace the Exalt has called together the heads of Ylisse’s noble houses to share of the halidom’s many bounties,” Maribelle replied, tapping a finger on the handle of her teacup. “Which, judging from the conversations I’ve heard thus far, is a thin excuse for summoning the wealthiest families in Ylisse in hopes of eliciting financial support for another incursion -- forgive me, _expedition_ is the term he chose -- onto Plegian soil.”

The prince felt the color drain from his face. “What?”

“But Princess Emmeryn and I have been negotiating an extension of the armistice for months now,” Robin protested, looking between Chrom and Lissa as the princess gently touched his arm. “How is this possible -- how can he do this?”

“It seems our father never intended to extend the armistice at all,” Emmeryn said softly as she moved to join them. “I’m so sorry, Robin, had I known his intentions I would never have dragged this out so long…”

“No -- please, you’ve nothing to apologize for,” the young man insisted. “This was not your fault. You did everything you could.”

“What are you gonna do now?” Lissa asked as her brother lay a comforting hand on Robin’s shoulder. 

“I’m...I’ll have to return to Plegia as soon as possible,” he murmured. “The sooner we can relay a warning, the better our defenses will be…”

“The snow will make travel difficult,” Chrom muttered -- which, he imagined, was part of why his father had waited so long to arrange this banquet, stringing the Plegian emissary along until he became trapped by the weather--

A woman bustled through their group, bumping Robin as she passed -- and spilling the contents of her cup across his arm. The young man stumbled, biting back a gasp as he clutched his hand to his chest. “How rude,” the stranger complained, “not excusing yourself for a lady…”

Whatever else she might have said was lost on the prince as he reached out to touch Robin’s hand and felt the scalding heat on his own glove. Muttering a low oath (which earned a scandalized huff from the noblewoman), Chrom gestured for Lissa to follow as he guided the Plegian toward the doors, gently teasing his soaked glove off before his skin could blister. Robin made no sound at all: only his short breaths gave away his pain as they retreated from the state room and into the corridor beyond.

“Where's your staff?” the prince asked his sister as they passed the guards at the threshold. 

“I-in my room -- I'll go grab it, just give me a minute,” she babbled, scampering off and vanishing around the corner. 

Chrom and Robin followed at a slower pace, turning out of sight of the banquet hall and moving down the torchlit passage that overlooked the darkening grounds. Guiding them to one of the lamps spaced along the wall, the prince held his hand out. “Let me take a look.” He might not be a cleric like his sister, but if there was anything he could do to help…

As the young man’s fingers settled over his, Chrom felt a sudden wave of anxiety wash over him: in spite of the angry red tinge in his dark skin, the six-eyed brand on the back of Robin’s hand seemed entirely untouched. Gods, he hoped no one had seen it as they departed, that was the last thing they needed--

The click of Lissa’s heels hurrying toward them brought his head up; the clank of armor that pursued her, however, just made his stomach knot. “I got it,” the princess said, holding her staff up. “And Frederick said he was looking for you,” she mumbled, shooing her brother’s fingers away before focusing her attention on the Plegian’s burn. 

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Milord,” the great knight sighed. “We must make haste, His Grace the Exalt will be furious if you tarry longer--”

“I’ve already been,” Chrom muttered, placing himself carefully between Robin and Frederick to shield the young man’s brand. “I made my appearance. That should satisfy him.”

“I’m certain your father intended for you to stay through the evening,” Frederick cautioned. 

“I don’t care,” the prince growled. “I’ve done my part, and I’m not going back.”

The great knight frowned as Chrom met his warning look with an unwavering stare. And after a moment, Frederick sighed, offering a shallow bow. “As you wish, Milord. I will see what I can do to discourage further interruptions.”

“...thank you,” the prince replied, startled by the great knight’s agreement. Frederick merely nodded and moved past them, the clanking of his armor fading rapidly as he turned the corner and continued on past their sight. Turning back to Lissa and Robin, he lay a hand gently on the young man’s shoulder, watching the warm green light around his sister fade as she stepped back. “How is it?” he asked. 

“It wasn’t too bad,” she admitted, pulling a tightly rolled strip of linen from one of her apron pockets. “My staff handled most of it, but you should still let it rest and breathe, okay?”

“Alright,” Robin murmured, submitting without complaint as she wrapped the bandage over his brand. “Thank you, Lissa.”

She nodded, her smile for once absent as she looked up at the young man...before she threw her arms around him in a tight hug. “I’m sorry,” she sniffled. “I didn’t want this to happen -- I wish you didn’t have to go...”

“As do I,” Robin whispered, returning her embrace. “But...I hope we’ll see each other again someday.”

“Can I at least come say goodbye before you leave?” she whimpered. 

“Of course,” he murmured, running a hand soothingly across her shoulders. “I’ll need to set off early tomorrow morning…”

“I’ll be there,” the princess insisted, pulling back to scrub at her eyes with her sleeve. “I promise I will.”

Robin mustered a smile, glancing between the prince and his sister. “I need to start preparing for the journey,” he said softly. “I’m sorry I won’t be able to join you for supper--”

“I’ll help,” Chrom insisted. 

“Me, too,” Lissa added. “What’ll you need?”

“Food, medicine...perhaps some warmer clothes, if the weather remains like this…”

“I can get the medicine,” the princess declared. “Nobody’ll wonder why a cleric’s in the infirmary.” 

“I’ll help with your things,” the prince murmured as Lissa marched off down the hall. “And then we can see about something warmer to wear.”

“Thank you,” the young man replied, leaning close as Chrom slipped an arm around his shoulders. They walked together through the corridors and up the stairs, making their way to the quiet guest wing and moving into Robin’s room…

The prince paused as he looked around the dark space. The fire had been left unlit, and the chill prickled at his skin as he felt his way to the hearth, stacking a few logs in place as Robin brought a lamp to see by and using its weak flame to light the tinder. “It’ll take a while to get going,” Chrom muttered. “We can see about some warmer clothes in the meantime.”

The young man nodded, following the prince quietly out of his quarters and through the maze of halls to the Chrom’s own apartments. The blaze crackling warmly in the fireplace of his own parlour only made the snub toward their guest more apparent -- but he pushed the ire aside, gesturing for Robin to take a seat and moving into his bedroom to dig through the trunks of winter clothes for a few woolen sweaters and heavy breeches -- all doubtless oversized, but warmer than anything the Plegian had for the journey home. 

Returning to the sitting room...he paused, his heart twisting as he saw Robin huddled on the couch by the fire, shivering as he pressed his tightly folded hands to his mouth. Crossing the room, he set the garments aside, settling in close beside the young man and slipping an arm around his shoulders. “Are you alright?”

Robin shook his head. “I want this war to end,” he whispered. “All my life, it’s been there, looming at Plegia’s borders -- even when the battles stopped for a time, there’s always been the fear that they would resume. And they always have. And every time, families are torn apart, and so many can never see their loved ones again…”

“Why not?” Chrom asked. “I thought Grima’s Night was when they returned.”

The young man wiped his bandaged hand across his cheeks, drying the shining tracks winding down his face. “Only if they’ve been buried,” he whispered. “The bones left behind are what allow the spirits to return, drawing the souls that once inhabited them across the border. When there are no bones, the spirits have nothing to guide them home. And...my uncle Orton and Grandpa Campari have been at the front, fought against the halidom’s armies -- when a battle was done, the Exalt had the field cleared of Ylisse’s injured and fallen, and burned whatever remained.”

A sickening horror knotted his stomach as he tightened his arm around Robin’s shoulders. The silence stretched, marred only by the flames burning in the hearth. He tried to think of something to say -- anything at all that might break this stillness, ease the weight in the air...but the words felt uncomfortable and strange, and when he drew the breath to speak them it sounded like a sob. “Have you...do you ever worry that you’re wrong?” Chrom whispered. “About your faith, or your divine?”

“Do you?” the young man mumbled back. 

“That’s not fair, answering a question with a question,” the prince muttered. But Robin gave no other reply, and as much as Chrom might have wished for more time to think, he knew that it would become no easier if he waited. “...I didn’t before,” he admitted. “For a long time, I just...I grew up praying to Naga, and celebrating the Festival of Naga’s Light, and praying to Her, and...and I didn’t think about it. And then you came.”

He glanced over at the young man, tightening his arm very slightly around Robin’s shoulders. “You came and you proved that my father was wrong about Plegians. That...that everything he said was a lie, or a cruel manipulation of the truth. And more and more I’ve wondered if...all this time, the divine I’ve been worshipping is really the kind divine I was taught, or if...She’s just as cruel as my father. Because what sort of divine would just _let_ this happen, allow someone using Her name to kill and burn those who never did Her people any harm, just because they follow a different divine? Even if Naga doesn’t believe it’s right, she hasn’t _stopped_ him, either, and...and even though I’m supposed to be one of Her Blessed, no matter how much I’ve prayed, how much I’ve _begged_ Her to answer, She’s never spoken to me. So I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

As Chrom’s free hand tightened into a trembling fist, the Plegian’s bandaged fingers settled over his. “I’ve never wondered like that,” he admitted quietly. “But then, I’m supposed to be my nation’s divine reborn. In...in some ways, it was a blessing, because if I’m Grima, then anything I do is right. If I’m kind and gentle, then Grima must be, too. If I want to protect rather than harm, then Grima must want the same. But...but it carries a weight to it, too, because if I want Grima to be these things, then I _always_ have to be that way. I _always_ have to be kind and gentle and strong. I can never be angry or harsh or weak. I feel like I can’t even grieve.”

“...you lost someone?” the prince murmured. 

Robin nodded, tightening his grip as Chrom laced their fingers. “The last king of Plegia was family to me. My Grandpa Maliq. He helped raise me, he taught me so much about what it takes to be a good ruler, a _kind_ ruler...I loved him so much, and when he died...I’d never lost someone like that before. Someone I cared about so much, someone who had always been there in my life...suddenly there was this void where he’d been, because a part of me expected that things would be the same, that I would wake up and go downstairs and he would be there perusing some formal declaration over his breakfast, and he would look up and grin at me and invite me to sit with him, see what he was doing and learn about what was going on in the nation...but when I actually did, his place was empty, and I had to face again that he was gone. It wasn’t just a dream, he’d really gone to Grima’s embrace. And...and when it came time for the ceremony at Dragon’s Table before his burial, I was called on to speak. Because as Grima’s Heart, I could witness his passing. And I knew I had to be calm, and strong, even though I didn’t feel it, and I didn’t...I didn’t think I could.”

“What happened?” the prince asked.

Silence met his question. The young man’s hand began to tremble as he drew in an unsteady breath. “You’ll think me mad.”

“I won’t,” Chrom promised. 

“...there’s another reason why I do not fear being wrong about my divine,” Robin whispered. “You say you’ve never heard Naga. That you can’t know the truth of her or her intentions...but when they called on me in the Dragon’s Table to tell of my grandfather and send him to his final rest -- when I felt weakest, and feared I would break if I tried to speak...I heard a voice. Just a whisper in my ear, so soft I might have missed it, if not for the silence at the altar...and it told me to grieve. It said...it said, ‘do not fear that you are weak for mourning, for grief is part of loss, and loss a part of life. But do not let that grief consume you: do not forget the good he brought into this world, so worthy of celebration; and remember, too, that his life was long and full of joy. Miss him, mourn him...and cherish the love he shared, that you might spread it in his stead.’ And those words gave me heart.”

The prince stared at the young man tucked against his side. “Was...was it Grima?”

“I don’t know,” Robin confessed. “But no one else heard the voice. I asked a few people, after the ceremony, but...I always thought it was Grima’s Voice I heard that day. And it was as kind as I had always tried to be. Which just made me try that much harder to be worthy of the Heart I bear.”

“I don’t think a brand is something you need to be worthy of,” Chrom murmured. “It’s...it’s just a mark. We say they mean so much, but...it’s what we do that matters. And everything you’ve done -- everything you’re doing...that’s the mark of who you are. And it’s part of why I love you.”

At last the young man smiled, turning to look at the prince -- and Chrom leaned closer, gently squeezing Robin’s fingers as he kissed the corner of his lips. “We’ll find some way to solve this,” the prince swore. “I know we will--”

The sound of clanking armor approached up the hall at a run: not one body, but many. Chrom looked up at the pounding on his door, rising to his feet and starting to cross the room even as the way opened and a quartet of armored lancers burst in. “What’s going on?” he demanded, a cold dread making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “What’s wrong?”

The guards looked toward him...and then past him at the young man sitting by the fire. “You,” the leader said, brushing past the prince. “Come with us.”

“What is it?” Robin asked, already starting to rise as the lancer approached -- and seized him roughly by the arm, twisting it behind the young man’s back while another did the same on the other side. “What is this?” he asked again, his voice tighter as he looked toward Chrom. 

“You’re coming with us,” the guard replied curtly, marching the Plegian out of the room. 

“Hey -- wait! Stop!” the prince ordered, trying to shove past the spear wielders flanking the procession. But for all his protests, all his demands, all his desperate attempts to block their progress, the soldiers did not answer, did not listen, did not slow…

////

Chrom dragged his thoughts out of dark places as Amber paced into the courtyard beneath the Plegian castle. Scanning the yard, he paused despite himself to stare up at the giant skull that loomed overhead, its jaws gaping wide, the six empty sockets no less imposing for the eyes they lacked; the rest of the space looked to have seen better days, with pillars crumbling and the stone dais cracked and cratered in several places, and he wondered how recent the damage was: had his father ever reached the castle, attempted an assault or a siege…

It hardly mattered, he decided bitterly, dismounting at the bottom of a steep set of stairs carved into the side of the mesa. “Wait here for me,” he murmured, stroking Amber’s nose before starting his ascent. He stuck close to the wall, his progress laboriously slow given the lack of any railing to prevent a fall...but he made progress, maneuvering deliberately along the switchback cuts until he finally reached the top of the mesa and the castle that stood back from its crumbling edge. 

As he approached the doors, he found no guards posted outside; stranger still, the way was open, a black passage gaping like the dragon skull in the courtyard below. But he entered even still, drawing Falchion to light the way in the dark entry and down the long hall with its empty sconces; the blade’s glow rippled as he crept up the stairs at the end of the corridor, the first trace of firelight at last appearing out of the gloom as he neared the top. Passing beneath the high archway, he scanned the imposing throne room, sweeping Falchion toward the deep shadows between the intermittent torches...but the light played strangely in the dark, shifting and twisting in place as he turned -- gods, what did that mean--

Something swept his feet out from under him. The prince fell hard onto the polished floor, struggling to rise even as someone pressed a knee into the small of his back, keeping him pinned to the ground. Before he could shift his grip on his sword, a hand grabbed his hair and wrenched his head up, cold steel touching his throat. 

“Where is he?” a low voice hissed in his ear.

Chrom swallowed, feeling a drop of blood wind down his neck as the wicked blade cut his skin. “Who?” he managed. 

“Don’t play dumb, whelp,” the voice snarled. “ _Robin._ What did you bloody Ylisseans do with him? _Where is he?_ ”

The prince winced, drawing in an unsteady gasp. “He’s at the Dragon’s Table.”

Silence. Chrom struggled to breathe, feeling the fingers twist in his hair and closing his eyes…

The sword at his neck pulled away. The hand holding his head up released its grip, and he fell to the floor as the pressure on his back vanished before a roar of anguish filled the chamber, echoing eerily through the pillars and out into the hall below. The crash of steel on stone rang in his ears as he picked himself up off the ground, watching the bolt-shaped sword skitter toward him -- followed by a lean man striding out of the dark, the golden diadem on his brow flashing as he grabbed the front of the prince’s shirt and dragged him down. “Why didn’t you _do_ something!?” he demanded, fierce red eyes boring into Chrom’s dark blue ones. 

The prince stared, his breath snaring in his throat. “...are you Gangrel?” he whispered. 

“And I’d wager you’re Chrom,” the man sneered. “I've seen that damned Exalt before, but you still bear that wretched brand of his. And Robin wrote enough about you that it made me sick. You were supposed to be _different, better_ than the Ylisseans who bay for Plegian blood at a mere _glimpse_ of black and gold. So _why didn't you help him?”_

“I tried,” Chrom choked out. “I tried, and I failed, so I'm here to try and make things right.”

“Make things ri-- _make things right!?”_ Gangrel repeated incredulously. “ _Robin is dead._ I’ll be _damned_ if I let an Ylissean whelp near the throne of Plegia, so what _exactly_ do you imagine you can do to make things _right?”_

“I just need to find someone,” the prince explained. “A woman with a feather cloak. Do you know her?”

“Validar's spy, you mean,” the man snorted, finally releasing his hold on Chrom's shirt. “What exactly do you need from _Aversa?_ Are you looking for help getting into an early grave? Is _that_ your form of atonement?”

“I don't intend to die yet,” the prince replied. “I just need her cloak. It was made from part of Grima and holds some of the fell dragon's power, it can bring Robin back…”

Gangrel’s smirk twisted into a thin-lipped snarl. “Do you really believe that nonsense?” he scoffed. “Grima was nothing more than an overgrown mutant lizard, and he's been dead for a thousand years. What power does a dead dragon have to do _anything?_ He has about as much chance of bringing Robin back as your prattling has of making the sun rise at midnight.”

“...you don’t worship Grima,” Chrom breathed.

“Brilliant assessment,” the man scoffed. “I don't. I pay lip service to the old bones, but I lost whatever faith I had when your father marched across the border, slaughtered my family for the crime of being ‘Plegian heathens,’ and put my whole village to the torch. You know, those old crones call themselves ‘diviners,’ but not one of them realized they put the crown on the head of a non-believer. If that's not proof that the whole thing is horse shit, I don't know what is.”

“Robin believed it,” Chrom murmured. 

Gangrel's expression changed, the spite in his glare replaced by something despairing. “He did. He was an idealistic fool who believed all sorts of things. He believed that little mark on his hand meant he had to live up to some ridiculous expectations. He believed he could actually get the halidom to make peace with us. ...he believed in me.” The prince swore he heard the man’s voice crack on those quiet words before his accusing stare burned through the prince once more. “...he believed in you. And look where it got him.” 

“I know I failed him,” Chrom whispered as the man knelt to collect his sword. “But I still believe there's a chance to get him back. And I won't let it slip away by giving up.”

“You're as much a fool as he was, then,” Gangrel muttered, turning away and wandering back into the shadows, the tip of his blade scraping across the stone floor as he dragged it carelessly behind him. “Get out of here,” he muttered.

“What about the woman?” the prince asked. 

“Aversa left for Carrion Isle on the hierophant’s orders and isn't back yet,” the man called over his shoulder. “Try back tomorrow -- and enjoy your last night alive.” 

Chrom breathed a slow sigh, looking again around the empty throne room. If she was on Carrion Isle, why in the world would Falchion have led him here? Looking down at the blade...he paused, narrowing his eyes as he watched the light ripple and flow toward the steps behind him. The prince turned, descending once more into the dark hallway and watching the sword’s glow brighten and flare as he emerged into the cold night air--

A thunderbolt split the silence, accompanied by a panicked whinny from the courtyard below. 

“Amber!” he shouted, bolting for the edge of the mesa. As he scrambled down the perilous stairs carved into the cliff face, he saw the mare galloping through the ruins, pursued at every turn by violet lightning arcing down from high overhead; squinting at the dark sky, he saw a shadow blot out the stars an instant before the the golden runes illuminated a black pegasus with a dark-robed rider soaring above the castle. 

Drawing in a deep breath, the prince blew a piercing whistle, tightening his grip on his sword as the flier changed course. He saw the golden rings brighten, electricity crackling along the edges of the runes -- and as the energy arced toward him, he jumped from the steps into the sand below, scrambling back to his feet as Amber came to an abrupt stop at his side; pulling himself up into the saddle, he spurred her back into a gallop an instant before the next bolt struck the place where they’d stood. 

For all that he’d hoped that their chances would improve with him riding rather than struggling on foot, Chrom realized the flaw in his logic as another spell crackled at the mare’s heels: mounted or not, he couldn’t reach an airborne enemy with only his sword. Racing toward the cover of the skull, Amber wove between the teeth sticking up from the sand, narrowly avoiding another bolt that scorched the bones behind them. If he could just lure the flier closer to the ground, somewhere he could reach…

The mare shrieked as another spell struck the sand beside her, bolting out into the open again. As the prince looked back, he saw the enemy’s pegasus soar back into the sky from the far side of the skull: she hadn’t so much as paused to hover, simply firing at their flank mid-dive. Gods, what chance did they have--

An arc of pale lightning shot high into the air from atop the mesa, striking the dark flier and sending her mount tumbling toward the ground. While the winged horse managed to right itself, it still landed hard enough to nearly unseat the woman on its back; unwilling to waste his one opportunity, Chrom turned Amber toward the enemy, bracing himself and leaping from the saddle as they passed, tackling the dark flier into the sand. 

The pegasus gave a shrill whinny, taking off again as the prince’s mare charged back toward them. Before Chrom could ready his blade, the golden runes flared to light, and he rolled aside barely in time to avoid another bolt; by the time he scrambled to his feet, the white-haired woman had already regained hers, smirking as she turned the pages of her tome with wickedly long nails. “You must be the one who’s been tearing the Grimleal Order apart,” she mused. “I suppose you’re here for me, now, aren’t you.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” the prince said, tightening his grip on Falchion’s hilt. 

“What a shame,” she giggled, another spell flaring to light around her. “Because I _very_ much want to hurt you, and it’s no fun at all when they don’t fight back.”

Dodging aside from her attack, the prince lunged toward the woman -- only for her to dissolve into a shadowy mist, vanishing out from under the point of his sword. He saw the bright golden glow out of the corner of his eye and dove aside, feeling the electric energy burn the air behind him as it passed. He supposed that explained what ‘illusory speed’ meant; leaping back to his feet, Chrom charged again, turning as her figure evaporated and slicing Falchion through the space behind him... to no avail as another spell hummed to his left, beyond his swing.

“Is this really the best you can do?” Aversa laughed. “How in the world did you manage to defeat Excellus if this is all you’re capable of?” Before he could move, her figure faded again...and he felt her nails prick at the soft underside of his jaw. “I’ll rip your heart out and present whatever’s left of you to Master Validar. Won’t he be pleased?” she whispered in his ear as the runes glowed bright around them. He couldn’t move fast enough to strike her down -- but even so, he turned the sword in his hands, prepared to stab behind him as the crackle of lightning filled his ears… 

An angry whinny cut through his focus. Without thinking he lunged aside, feeling the woman’s claws cut his skin as he broke through the circle an instant before Amber charged past, knocking the woman off-balance and sending the bolt arcing wide to strike the stones. Aversa snarled, training her aim on the mare -- and the prince paused only long enough to secure his grip on Falchion’s hilt before lunging toward her, driving his sword deep into her chest.

Her lips twisted into a rictus grin, blood seeping at the corners as he staggered away. She collapsed slowly, dropping to her knees, then slumping to one side, her white hair falling into her face as dark blood stained the pale sand. Squeezing his eyes shut tight, Chrom tried and failed to fight back the nauseous horror, sinking to his knees and retching bile as he raked his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he whimpered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

He heard Amber’s hoofbeats pace toward him, felt her warm breath as she nuzzled his hair, and drew a steadying breath. “I’m alright,” he mumbled, lifting a hand to touch her nose. “Don’t worry. I’m alright.” Drawing a wavering breath, the prince pushed himself to his feet, moving slowly toward the body on the ground; pulling his sword free, he cleaned and sheathed the blade with trembling hands before reaching out to touch the feathered cape she wore, following the silky material up to her shoulders and carefully unfastening the clasps that held it in place. Gathering it up as best he could, he pulled its length away from the body--

Agony seared through him, piercing through his arms, his chest, his skull. He felt the scream scour his throat as his body convulsed, pain crackling across his nerves, down the length of his spine, through every limb and digit...and as he prayed for peace, the darkness rose, leaving nothing in its wake. 


	9. Grima's Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only one trial remains in Chrom's journey to restore Robin's life: the final artifact is a tome made from Grima's hide, channeling the fell dragon's essence into its attacks and held by the head of the Grimleal. Thinking of what brought him so far, and what will be undone by his success, he resists the final pleas from Robin's family, and makes his way down into the dark to face his final foe -- only to be shaken by the possibility that his entire quest has been nothing more than a ruse...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for this chapter, because it is painful and may or may not have caused at least one person to cry ~~it was me~~. As before, slashes (/) represent flashbacks, while double lines (=) separate dreams (in italics) from reality. Dubious as it sounds, I hope you enjoy!

_The darkness flowed around him, a gentle caress that soothed his weary mind and aching body. He could see nothing in this place beyond the subtle shift of shadows, and a part of his mind wondered dimly just where the current would carry him when his journey finally came to an end. How far beyond Naga's Light he had traveled in this place? Could Her Grace still reach him here? Or would he be forsaken if he found himself lost in the tide..._

_He heard a soft sound by his ear that made his chest tighten: a forlorn sob, a shuddering breath…before an unmistakable presence at his back embraced him, warm arms curling close around his chest._

_“I love you, Chrom.”_

_His heart ached, tears welling in his eyes as he tried to touch the gentle hands, desperate to hold them once more…_

===

“Robin…”

Chrom's voice echoed off cold stones. Forcing his eyes open, he stared toward the altar at the heart of the Dragon's Table, the figure upon it blurring as his tears overflowed. He'd been so close -- close enough to hear him, feel him...why did it always end there before he could answer, before he could return that touch, why was it never enough…

Even as he asked the question, he knew the answer. His task was incomplete. But only one more challenge awaited now. 

It took everything in him to rise to his feet, and he had to lean against the nearest pillar to catch his breath once he did. His strength returned only gradually, and he still stumbled on his first step, but he found his balance in another moment as he made his way up the shallow stairs to stand atop the platform. Scanning the dais, he saw the mantle draped atop the plinth opposite the bone armor, the glossy plumes arrayed at the shoulders taking on a deep violet sheen under the wan moonlight. 

Only one pedestal stood empty now, across from the serrated fang. And then his quest would be complete. 

_“I commend you, tiny one.”_

The voice stirred the air around him -- and he swore he felt the phantom brush of feathers on the back of his neck as he looked toward the nearly moonless sky. _“West of here, a city lies hidden in the sands beyond the castle, sheltered by stone and what remains of my body. In the heart of that place, a tome is kept, bound in my hide and written in my blood to draw upon my essence. The man who holds it is as cruel as he is powerful, and would sacrifice anything for the power he desires. Take it from him, and what you ask may at last be done -- but you must make haste: the longest night fast approaches, and once it is past your chance will be lost.”_

“I understand,” Chrom called, his voice hoarse in the silence of the rotunda. As the final echoes faded, the prince’s gaze settled on the body resting atop the altar. Were it not for his stillness, Chrom might have thought him only sleeping...but no breath lifted his chest, and as the prince brushed his knuckles against Robin's cheek, he felt no warmth. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I swear, it won’t be much longer. Just a little more, and then…”

Looking at the dark veins creeping up to his shoulder, he felt a twinge of sorrow. “Even if I succeed, I don’t know if I’ll be able to see you again,” he whispered. “But no matter what happens...please don’t forget that I love you.” Folding his fingers around the young man’s marked hand, Chrom leaned close, touching a kiss to his brow. “I love you, Robin,” he repeated, making no effort to stem the flow of tears. 

Withdrawing slowly, the prince made his way out of the chamber, drying his eyes as he trudged down the spiral stair and out of the tower; Amber’s whicker of greeting brought a weak smile back to his face, and he paused to stroke her neck as she nosed his hair. “Think you can help me one more time?” he asked. 

The mare snorted agreeably, standing still as he pulled himself up into the saddle and withdrew Falchion from its sheath. Turning her once more toward the sands beyond the Dragon’s Table, Chrom spurred her on, following the flow of light that rippled along the blade. One more. Only one more. And finally, _finally,_ he could undo all the wrongs that had brought him here, and set things right at last. 

/////

While he managed to keep pace with the guards as they marched through the palace halls, he could not break through their ranks to reach Robin. He tried, shoving against the armored lancers, demanding that they stop and explain themselves -- but all to no avail: the flanking soldiers blocked him at every turn as they made their way down to the ground floor, through the main corridor, and into the throne room. 

Night had fallen over the halidom, but the light from the sconces on the pillars reflected endlessly across the alabaster stone, creating a disorienting illusion of daylight as Chrom pursued them up the green carpet stretching the length of the chamber. “We’ve brought the Plegian as ordered, Your Grace,” the lead guard announced. 

“What kept you?” the Exalt’s cold voice replied. With the extra space to maneuver, the prince darted around the soldiers, staring up at the dais where his father stood in his full regalia, his hand resting on the hilt of the holy blade sheathed at his side.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” the lancer bowed. “We were forced to mount a search. We located him in Prince Chrom’s chambers.”

The prince felt his stomach knot as the Exalt’s face went white with fury. Bolting past the soldiers still standing at the foot of the stairs, Chrom planted himself firmly between Robin and his father, meeting the man’s cold grey stare without flinching. “What’s going on?” he demanded. 

“I have business with the Plegian,” the Exalt growled, his lip curling in disdain as he looked over his son’s shoulder. “This does not concern you.”

“What kind of ‘business’ requires armed guards?” the prince asked. 

“That is none of your concern,” his father snapped. 

“It _is,_ ” Chrom insisted. “I’m not leaving without an answer.”

The Exalt looked to the soldiers at the base of the platform. “Remove the prince,” he ordered coolly. “See that he does not leave his apartments again.”

“No!” Chrom snarled, backing toward Robin as the guards moved up the stairs. Even as he tried to push back against them, the lancers took firm hold of his arms, pulling him down from the dais while he struggled to break free from their vise grips. 

“Please, Your Grace,” he heard the Plegian say, his voice soft and remarkably calm. “What is this about?”

“Don’t play coy, you vile thing,” the Exalt snarled. The prince heard Robin gasp in pain and dug his heels in, lunging back with enough strength to stagger the soldiers that held him; breaking away, he turned to see his father holding the young man's wrist aloft as he ripped the bandages from his hand -- and heard the lancers’ horrified oaths as the light touched the soft violet mark on Robin’s skin. 

“So it’s true: you do bear the Brand of Defile,” Chrom heard his father growl as the soldiers grabbed him once more. He fought against them, trying desperately to move their armored weight and make his way back to the throne as the young man pulled his hand to his chest, anxiously shielding the mark that had already been exposed. “I should have dealt with you properly when you first set foot in Naga’s blessed lands.”

The prince lunged again as his father drew the glowing blade from its sheath. “Stop!!” he shouted, struggling uselessly against the lancers gripping his arms.

“Your Grace, I beg you, whatever you might imagine, the truth is far different,” Robin pleaded. “I can explain if you’ll just allow me--”

“ _Silence!”_ the Exalt roared, brandishing Falchion at the young man and making him cringe away, only to be stopped by the spears trained on his back. “I know _precisely_ what you are, Fellblood -- just as I know that it is your cursed fate to return Grima to this world and once more wreak destruction upon these lands. I will not allow the fell dragon to rise again: as my forebear did one thousand years ago, I will put an end to your evil, here and now.”

Chrom screamed, straining hard enough to move the heavily armored men who held him...but it was not enough: as Robin lifted his hands in self-defense, he saw the guards grab his arms and wrench them back -- and watched his father plunge the glowing blade into the Plegian’s breast. 

The strength went out of the prince in that instant. His legs buckled, and only the soldiers’ hands kept him from collapsing to the pale stone floor; a sob ripped through Chrom as the Exalt tore his weapon free, his vision blurring as the young man fell to his knees and slumped motionless to the floor. A thin red ribbon wound its way down the steps leading to the throne, and the prince fell further, his shoulders sagging as the guards that held him released their holds -- and in their place, Emmeryn’s embrace caught him up, her delicate fingers smoothing his hair the way she had when he was young and hurting...but she was trembling, too, her breathless sobs muffled in his shoulder even as she held his head to hers.

Looking past her, he watched their father wipe the bright blood from his sword and sheathe it once more at his side. An aching numbness consumed him, his senses dulling and his mind slowing to a crawl…but even still, he heard the man’s words toll through the chamber: “Burn it. Scatter the ash into the bay.” 

The meaning sank in slowly, the echoes building to a deafening roar in his skull as the Exalt strode past them. Gripping his sister's sleeves, he lifted his head, barely able to speak but fighting even still to try as panic warred with grief over his broken heart. “We can't let him -- Emm, please, we can't let him, we _can't_ , we…”

She hushed him gently, her hands cupping his face and wiping away the tracks his tears had left behind. “I'll divert the guards, but you’ll need to be quick. ...find a safe place for him to rest,” she pleaded, drying her own face with the edge of her sleeve before wrapping him in a tight embrace. And then she was gone, her pale robes shining in the torchlight as she approached the dais; her words were too soft for him to hear, but they seemed effective, for the soldiers turned and marched from the throne room with the eldest princess close behind.

And then there was only silence. 

Staggering to his feet, Chrom mounted the stairs, his blurred gaze trained on the motionless body at the edge of the platform. He stumbled as he neared the top, falling to his knees on the once pristine alabaster, now marred by spots and streaks of scarlet…and as he turned to the figure beside him, what remained of his heart lodged in his throat. 

Robin's eyes were still open, their warm honey-gold hue darkened to a lifeless umber. The six-eyed mark on his hand, too, had lost its light, fading to a dull bruise; the last color that remained to him came from the trace of blood that stained his lips, trickling down his chin, and even that was swiftly turning to rust as it dried. “I'm sorry,” the prince sobbed, folding his trembling fingers around the young man's hand. “I'm sorry, Robin, I'm sorry, I’m so…”

Chrom choked on the words, reaching out to gently close the sightless eyes and trying to wipe the blood from his skin, only for it to flake and smear beneath his touch. Fumbling with the clasp of his cape, the prince carefully wrapped it around the body, gathering the shrouded figure and rising slowly to his feet. Robin's weight lolled in his arms, nearly unbalancing him as he took his first leaden steps, and the lack of any resistance as he secured his grip only made his chest ache -- but he moved, even still, trudging from the brilliant throne room and out into the dark hall beyond.

A safe place, Emmeryn had said. Chrom had sworn to protect Robin, that night he spoke of his feelings. And when it mattered most, he’d done nothing: he’d been too weak to uphold the vow he’d made, and the man he loved had paid with his life. There was no safe place here -- there could be no safe place in the halidom for him, even now...

His steps faltered as he looked toward the archway leading to the courtyard, its doors slightly ajar. The sky had cleared, and the snow on the steps beyond glowed under the moon. The Plegian had planned to start his journey home come morning. He would have been back with the family he’d so long missed in time to celebrate Grima’s Night...

The very least Chrom could do was ensure that Robin could be with them in spirit. 

Shifting the weight in his arms again, he made his way out into the dark, barely feeling the cold as he made his way to the stables and down the row of stalls. A familiar whicker greeted him as he neared the far end of the barn, and he turned to see the bay mare craning her neck over the door beside him. “Hey, Amber,” he whispered, laying the body gently on the ground before unlatching the gate. “Do you think you can help me?”

She snorted, standing quietly while the prince brushed her hide and secured her tack. Checking her empty saddle bags, he briefly considered simply leaving, finding supplies once the castle was far behind...but no. His best chance -- possibly his only chance -- was to prepare everything now, and not look back once he left the gates. “I’ll be back soon,” he murmured...and as an afterthought, he carefully moved Robin’s body into the near corner of her stall, sheltered from sight in his absence. 

Closing the door behind him, the prince slung the bags over his shoulder, making his way swiftly out of the stables and across the icy courtyard to the palace; navigating the torchlit halls, he crept through the quiet kitchens and into the pantry, running his hands along the rows of barrels--

He bumped into something, reeling back as someone knocked into the shelves ahead with a startled yelp -- that he recognized instantly. “Lissa?” 

“Chrom?”

The prince backed out of the larder with his sister close behind, her apron laden with everything from cured venison to dried fruit. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, keeping his voice low for fear of passing guards. 

“I’m getting food for Robin’s trip,” she hissed back. “He wasn’t in his room or the stables when I checked so I figured I’d get some more stuff together. What are you doing here?”

She didn’t know. The words choked him as he opened his mouth to speak, the hollow ache in his breast constricting anew and bringing fresh tears with it...and her expression shifted from confusion to concern as she watched him, finally taking in his missing cloak, the satchels he carried, the smeared traces of blood on his clothes. “What happened?” she asked, her hands twisting the hem of her apron. 

“...Robin’s gone, Lissa,” the prince whispered. “Our father, h-he…”

His throat closed, silencing whatever else he might have tried to say. But even that had been more than enough: her hands flew up to cover her mouth, the supplies she’d collected falling to the floor and scattering in all directions as she shook her head, muffling a sob in her gloves. Moving forward, Chrom pulled his sister into a tight embrace, holding her as she clung to his shirt and screamed her grief into his chest. 

He did not know how long they huddled together, shaking in sorrow and misery and rage. All he knew was that Lissa’s voice, small and muffled by tears, finally broke the heavy silence that had settled over the room. “What’re we gonna do now?”

“I’m going to take him home,” the prince replied.

“...to the Dragon's Table?” she sniffled. 

“...yes,” he agreed. That would be the best place, wouldn't it? Where Plegian kings were brought before their final rest -- he'd not been crowned, but he was meant for it, he deserved nothing less…

The princess pulled back, scrubbing fitfully at her eyes. “Let me help.”

“Lissa, you don't--"

“ _Please,_ ” she sobbed. “I have to do _something_ \-- I couldn't do _anything_ for him before, I wanted to help him get back safe but now he's _gone,_ and I'll have to think about that _forever._ Let me help get him home. Please, Chrom, let me do something, I have to do _something…_ ”

The prince pulled her close again, running his hand across her shoulders. “You’re already helping,” he murmured. “You got supplies together, right?” She nodded, her pigtails bobbing as she wiped her eyes. “That’s what I came here for. Now I have a head start because you already got everything together.”

She mustered a weak smile at his praise, crouching down and beginning to collect the items that had fallen from her apron. “Do you have medicine yet?” she asked as he joined her. 

“No,” he admitted. “I came straight here--"

“I left a couple vulneraries in Robin's room,” she interrupted, snatching for the bags on his shoulder. “Go get those, I'll pack these.”

“...thanks, Lissa,” he murmured, passing the satchels to her. “I'll meet you in the foyer, alright?”

“Okay,” she agreed. Drawing his sister into a brief, tight embrace, he rose and hurried out of the kitchens, winding his way through the heart of the palace toward the guest wing. As the heavy clank of armored boot steps sounded ahead, the prince muttered a low oath, scanning the corridor and ducking through the only door in sight, closing it silently behind him. 

His chest constricted as he realized where he was. The Exalt's study was a room he'd seen only in glimpses, all white ash furnishings with ivory inlay, pale leather upholstery picked in silver thread, trophies of his father's conquests from the hunt and battlefield alike mounted threateningly upon the walls. The ornaments displayed on every flat surface shone under the moonlight spilling through the windows, and Chrom's gaze swept from one to the next as he listened to the muffled steps beyond the room, wondering how many of these supposed treasures had been drenched in blood…

He stopped, staring at the suit of armor standing behind the desk. The Exalt had worn it into battle each time he crossed the halidom's western border, and arrayed it here each time he returned: his reminder, he claimed, of the work yet left undone. But its arms now hung limp at its sides, rather than resting on the pommel of the sword planted at its feet…while the holy blade itself leaned against the plate where his father had left it.

A wave of rage and grief crashed over him. Naga's fang, Ylisse’s great treasure, meant to protect mankind -- and used instead to slaughter innocents. Storming across the room, he took hold of the weapon, trembling as he lifted it from its place. He couldn't leave Falchion in the Exalt's hands -- he _would not_ leave it to be misused again for such cruel and selfish aims.

His father would be sure to miss it, though.

Which meant he would just have to move that much faster. 

Securing the sword at his side, the prince slipped out into the halls again, ducking down a narrow side corridor as the patrolling guards made their way back up the passage. There was no time to spare for fetching the vulneraries now: he would have to make do without. Hurrying down to the foyer, he peered through the shadows, trying to find Lissa in the dark--

“Chrom?”

His head came up as his younger sister scurried down one of the halls branching off the entry...with their older sister following close behind, her gown shining in the soft light coming through the windows. “You’re going?” Emmeryn asked softly while Lissa handed the heavy bags and an extra waterskin over to her brother. He nodded as his older sister approached...but before he could sling the satchels over his shoulder again, she wrapped something around them: a cloak, warm and heavy enough to combat the cold. “Be safe,” she murmured, embracing him as the youngest princess threw her arms around him. 

“Thank you both,” he whispered, hugging both his sisters tight. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Lissa mumbled, her tears staining his shirt again.

“I love you, too,” Emmeryn echoed, rising on tiptoe to kiss his brow. “Now go. We’ll delay as long as we can, but you’ll still need to be swift.”

“I know,” he nodded, pulling away and tucking the bags under his arm. Moving past the arch and down the snow-dusted steps, he glanced back to see his sisters waving to him from the doorway; smiling over his shoulder, he jogged across the courtyard and toward the stables as the heavy doors scraped closed behind him. The prince made his way back to Amber’s stall, greeting her quietly as he opened the gate and led her into the aisle to secure her saddlebags. Checking the weight, he drew in a deep, slow breath...and moved back through her door, gently lifting the shroud-wrapped body from its place and laying it across the mare’s back before pulling himself up into the saddle. 

Chrom gathered Robin up against him, holding him close as he touched his heels to Amber’s sides. She snorted quietly, walking out of the barn and along the path to the courtyard where the castle gates stood open--

“Milord?”

The prince tugged back on the reins as a familiar figure clanked into his path. “What are you doing out at this hour?” the great knight asked, frowning as he scanned the horse and rider, the shrouded figure, the blade at Chrom’s side…

“I’m taking Robin home,” the prince replied.

Frederick sighed, his breath billowing in the bright moonlight. “I don’t suppose there’s any way to change your mind,” he mused, looking down the road leading into Ylisstol. Chrom shook his head silently, tightening his arm around the body resting against him. “Then I suppose I’ll see to straightening things in the stables and clearing the snow from the courtyard. It’s quite a hazard, especially should it turn to ice in the night…”

The prince stared, watching the great knight fold his arms behind his back. “Why would you cover my tracks?” he asked. 

“I believe that it is my duty, as your warden, to protect you and your sisters from any threats to your life, health, and safety,” he replied reasonably. “And you know the Exalt’s temper as well as I.”

His chest tightened painfully at the reminder. “Take care of Lissa while I’m gone,” he murmured. 

“Of course, Milord,” Frederick bowed. Spurring Amber forward again, the prince left the courtyard behind, the mare’s hooves kicking up the thin snow as she trotted down the cobbled street, through the city, and down the dark roads beyond, toward the distant peaks that marked the end of Naga’s lands and the start of Robin’s own…

/////

Even with Falchion's glow to guide him, Chrom only managed to find his way with Amber's aid. She moved unbidden when he let the reins fall, trotting toward the cliff rising out of the desert...and while he saw nothing but stone as they approached, she seemed undaunted, pacing between a pair of tall cacti covered in needles the length of his hand -- and the rock before them shimmered away like a mirage, revealing an open archway leading into the city. 

A covered well stood just beyond the gate, as though to welcome travelers from the desert beyond, and past it buildings with a variety of colorful signs lined the road: places to eat and rest after the journey, he supposed, or to prepare for a new one. Further on, a silent market led to an open plaza with grand structures towering between the streets that fed into the square…and at the far side, tucked against the curve in the cliff face, a dark stone temple loomed out of the night. But to his surprise, the sword’s light did not point toward the steps, but to a narrow street running alongside it; following the path, he found a small courtyard lined with flowering scrub, a sheltered stable nestled to one side and steps leading into a modest stone building on the other. He sheathed his blade before dismounting, opening the gate to the stable -- and Amber walked past him without hesitation, moving into an empty stall and nosing the empty feed tray. “I guess this is home,” Chrom chuckled. It seemed the best place to leave her, then: removing her tack, he brushed her hide and filled her troughs, stroking her neck gently before closing the stall door between them. 

“Goodbye, Amber,” he murmured. The mare lifted her head from her water, craning her neck over the gate to bump his shoulder, and he smiled as he patted her wet nose in parting. Making his way back to the yard, he crept up the stairs and into the building, drawing Falchion to light the way through the long hall entirely devoid of torchlight, feeling a mounting unease as the corridor continued to stretch on and on…

When it finally ended, the prince could not help but stare at the wide foyer, its walls covered in beautiful engravings of people working, playing, hunting, training. Lifting his sword higher to better light the space, a dim flash drew his attention up to the ceiling, where Grima's likeness looked down on him with sparkling ruby eyes, wings fanned around the domed surface. So much for that impression of modesty…

Larger halls branched off to either side of the entry; sweeping his blade from one to the other, he moved where the light glowed brightest, picking his way down the curving passage. Lights at last began to dot the walls, though they were neither torches nor oil lamps, but stone tablets engraved with arcane runes, much like the one Robin's uncle had given him in the desert--

Voices reached him from behind the next corner. Cursing silently to himself, he sheathed Falchion and ducked away into the shadows along the near wall, praying that he would not be noticed in the dark. 

“Wren, please go back to bed,” a gruff voice sighed. 

“I can't sleep!” came the lighter, equally frustrated reply. “I'd just be tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling and you _know_ how much I hate that.”

“I'm well aware,” the first speaker grumbled. 

“You know you don't have to follow me around.”

“I believe that the bulk of my duty as your guard is to do just that.” The prince swore he heard a faint note of amusement in the rumbling voice. “And with someone out there hunting Grimleal, it's vital for me to ensure you're not harmed by someone seeking the hierophant."

“You don't really believe that, do you?” the other scoffed. 

Chrom saw the pair turn into hallway just ahead of where he crouched: a huge berserker, broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, following a much slighter woman with white hair. He tried to move back, away from the light the man held -- but the instant he did, the warrior turned toward him, the lamp in his hands suddenly replaced by a great axe as he shifted into a defensive form that blocked the woman from view. The prince drew his own blade, its pale glow rippling toward the passage beyond as he searched for an opening, a way to break past without doing them any harm…

“Mustafa?” the woman called softly. 

“Stay behind me, Wren,” the berserker ordered. Chrom’s hands shook at the familiar name, and he tightened his grip, slipping into a reactive stance and waiting for the man to strike…

He made no move. They stared at each other, their breaths controlled, their focus trained on one another’s blades, simply waiting for a shift, a movement -- but when it came, it was not from the fighters, but the woman who marched between them, entirely unafraid as she lifted the lamp to see. 

His heart twisted painfully in his chest as he saw Robin's features echoed softly in her face -- and in the same instant, recognition flashed through her tentative smile. “Are you Chrom?” she ventured. He nodded, and she waved insistently at the man behind her to lower his blade as Falchion's point lowered toward the floor. “I thought I recognized that brand -- Robin wrote so much about you…is he here with you? I was starting to get worried, his usual letter didn't arrive on time, and…”

“No,” the prince whispered, fighting to speak at all with his throat so tight. “He's not here. I'm sorry--"

“Why are you apologizing?” the woman laughed. “Robin's the one who should be sorry! Sending you along unescorted -- for Grima's sake, I thought I raised him with better manners than that! Where is he?” she asked, her fond excitement betraying her attempts at keeping a stern face. 

It only made the prince's heart ache all the more. “He's at the Dragon's Table."

Wren’s smile froze and faltered as the words sank in. She backed away slowly, laying a hand on Mustafa’s arm as the axe fell from his grip, grief and horror written in both their faces as they looked to Chrom. “How?” the berserker asked, his voice cracking on even that simple plea. 

“I was weak,” the prince whispered, his sword shaking in his hands. “I couldn't protect him. I tried, I fought, and all I could do was watch…”

Robin's mother moved toward him again, laying a hand gently on his arm. “You did all you could,” she assured him. “No one could ask more than that -- and you brought him home to us. We can set his place at Grima's Night...”

Her voice dissolved into quiet tears as he looked down at his blade. “You won't need to mark it for his spirit,” Chrom murmured. “I'm looking for a man with a dragonhide tome. Do you know where I can find him?”

“So it’s you who's been weeding the Grimleal order of its corrupt,” Mustafa muttered. 

“Why are you looking for the hierophant?” Wren asked, ignoring the berserker’s remark. 

“The book was made from Grima's remains,” the prince explained. “It holds the fell dragon’s power: it can bring Robin back.”

Mustafa looked to the woman in shock -- but she looked instead to Chrom, holding the light slightly closer and touching the dark veins running through his arm. “At what cost?” she demanded. 

“It doesn't matter,” the prince said--

“Do you believe my son would agree?”

He stared at Robin's mother, her grief tangible in her shaking grip and the tears winding down her cheeks. “He told me so much about you. I knew he was smitten even before he brought it up himself: he described you with such warmth and fondness -- and he was so happy when you accepted him, so eager to share all he could with you...he loved you dearly. You've fought so hard to bring him back to us, but do you imagine Robin would wish to return to a world without you?”

Chrom’s eyes burned as he met her gaze, his vision wavering as he tried and failed to fight back tears. “It wasn't right,” he insisted. “It wasn't right, it wasn't _just,_ it...it wasn't supposed to _be_ like this. It's my fault, my weakness that let it happen -- if I can fix it, then I don't care what happens to me.”

“You can't simply trade your life for his,” Wren pleaded. “He wouldn't want you to suffer this. He would never have asked this of you.”

“...I know,” the prince admitted. “I know he wouldn’t. It...it was selfish from the start. I just wanted him back so badly…”

“You can stop,” Robin’s mother murmured. “We’ll find a way to help you -- I happen to know a very talented dark mage with a knack for wild hexes who can fix you right up, I’m sure...just come with us. Rest. You don’t need to do anymore.”

“Yes I do,” Chrom whispered. “You, Plegia...the world needs someone like Robin: someone kind, someone gentle, who will fight to protect rather than conquer and reach out with an open hand to make peace. I can bring him back. I’m so close, and even...even if it’s all I can do, it will be worth it if he’s back where he belongs.” 

Wren sighed, reaching out to gently cup his cheek in her palm. “You’re as stubborn as my son,” she sniffed. “...alright. If there’s no changing your mind, then I’ll take you to the hierophant’s lab.”

Chrom mustered a smile, ducking his head in a grateful bow as she turned and moved past Mustafa. The berserker trailed close in their wake as Robin’s mother led the way through subtly curved corridors, past quiet nooks crowded with scrolls and tomes and sitting rooms full of well-used furnishings. “He’s a dangerous man,” she warned. “If you really have been going around cutting down the rest of his order -- have you?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder as he nodded, “-- then you know how powerful they can be. Validar is worse.”

He’d heard that name before: Excellus and Aversa both had spoken it, hadn’t they…? “What is he trying to do?” Chrom asked. 

“Gods only know,” Mustafa muttered.

“I can’t begin to imagine,” Wren agreed. “He was never satisfied just siring the Heart of Grima. I don’t know what else he wanted, but when I took Robin from him and gave him to the Plegian people, he was...far from pleased.”

The prince stopped dead in his tracks, so suddenly that the berserker touched his shoulder in clear concern. “Validar is Robin’s father?”

“I don’t imagine my son spoke much of him,” the woman replied. “Validar and I lead separate lives, and he had little contact with Robin beyond what was absolutely necessary for his instruction. Even that always left everyone unsettled. The hierophant is a single-mindedly cruel man who will do whatever it takes to fulfil his own ambitions, and a masterful manipulator on top of it, which is how he came to head the faith.”

“He’s planning something,” Chrom muttered, hurrying to catch up with her. “I heard...something about a ritual. And...the fell dragon’s return.”

“I never learned his intentions,” Wren confessed. “He was always very careful to keep his true aims hidden...but whatever it is, I doubt it will be good for anyone but him.” She stopped beside an unmarked wall, lifting the lamp and touching the flame to the stone...and after a moment, a rune appeared, glowing bright red as a doorway opened onto a steep flight of stairs. “Be careful,” she begged. 

“I’ll try.” Moving past the threshold, he tightened his grip on Falchion’s hilt, steeling himself for the descent into darkness--

“Wait.”

He paused, looking back at Robin’s mother as she lay a hand on his shoulder. “Validar’s greatest weakness is his arrogance. When he imagines he’s won, he gets careless. That’s how I saved my son: while he was gloating over his victory, Mustafa rushed to inform the king, who took us in before Validar could make his move. I don’t know if it will help, but...”

Chrom smiled, reaching up to touch her fingers. “Thank you,” he murmured. As he started down the twisting steps, he heard the door seal closed behind him, and felt his stomach knot painfully: there would be no further aid for him now. With Falchion’s glow to light the cramped space, he made his way deeper and deeper into the dark, trying to settle his nerves as he navigated the seemingly endless spiral...and pausing only when firelight painted the wall ahead. 

He’d come this far. There could be no turning back. Creeping silently down the last stairs, he leaned forward just far enough to see into the space beyond--

A black bolt struck the wall just above his head. Diving out into the open, he leapt back to his feet, scanning the room for the source of the attack…

“Well, now,” a cold voice laughed. “What do we have here?”

Falchion’s light blazed, illuminating the figure standing at the heart of the room. Had it not been for Wren’s own words, he would never have guessed that Robin might be the man’s son: the skeletal frame, spidery fingers, and gaunt face were exaggerated caricatures of Robin’s at best -- but the cruel red eyes that stared through the prince bore no resemblance to the honey-gold gaze of the young man Chrom knew. Tightening his grip on his sword hilt, he turned his attention to the book resting on the hierophant’s arm, the dark aura around it swelling as black sparks crackled between the man’s fingers; lunging forward, Chrom threw the whole of his weight behind the blade…

Validar parried with his bare hand. Stunned, the prince stared just an instant too long -- and the next blast of magic threw him across the room. “I would not have believed it, were I not seeing it with my own eyes,” the man chuckled as Chrom struggled back to his feet. “Even Naga’s holy blood cannot resist the fell dragon’s might. What a fitting servant you will make…”

“I’m no slave,” the prince grated out, charging toward the hierophant again.

“Is that so?” Validar remarked, dark energy crackling around him once more. “Tell me, what have you been doing?”

“I’m bringing Robin back,” Chrom snarled, slicing at the man’s side only to have his attack fended off again. 

“Is that so?” the man inquired, matching the prince’s blows. “You’ve cut down my commanders, to be sure, and claimed the gifts I bestowed upon them for their allegiance. And with each one, you’ve strengthened Grima’s powers, building the ritual array that will restore a soul to the very body I made to pave the way for His return -- a vessel fit to house the fell dragon’s own soul. I must thank you: you’ve made things quite easy for me.”

The wave of dread that crashed over him made his next strike clumsy, and the hierophant sidestepped with ease, carelessly swatting the blade away. “Really, now, must we fight?” the man asked as Chrom tightened his shaking grip on Falchion. “Grima sent you to me on the eve of His Night to herald His return. His power has already taken root within you: stop resisting and be _still._ ”

Validar made a quelling gesture, his cold command ringing through the room. The prince stumbled, the point of his blade lowering as he tried to secure his footing...and the hierophant’s eyes narrowed in triumph, a thin smile carving its way across his face. “Much better,” he murmured, curling his fingers as though to call Chrom closer. Relaxing his grip, the prince allowed his sword to settle at his side, staggering closer to the skeletal figure. “On your knees,” the man ordered -- and Chrom obediently fell to the ground, bowing his head and staring at the smooth stone beneath him. “Very good.” Validar stepped closer, the gilt hem of his robes drifting into the prince’s view as a sibilant hiss filled his ears. “What a fine prize you are: the descendant of the first Exalt, one of Naga’s own branded...such a glorious thing you’ll become, when Grima’s full might returns to cleanse this world…”

Chrom’s fingers twitched on Falchion’s hilt as bony fingers stroked his hair.

And then he surged up, plunging the blade through the hierophant’s chest. 

Validar gaped down at the sword, his red eyes wide as his gaze darted up to the prince’s face. “This was not...the destined...”

Whatever else he might have said was lost as Chrom pulled his sword free. The tome fell from the sorcerer’s hand as the body crumpled to the ground, and the prince covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve to dull the metallic stench of blood as he reached for the spellbook…

He hesitated, staring at the tome with its scaled covers and gilded pages. Everyone he’d met...every person on his journey had warned him that life could not be returned to the dead. That souls, once gone, could not be restored, and neither hexes nor hope, prayers nor pleas, could change that. Had he been tricked into helping Grima claim a body to rain destruction on the world anew? Had he really been played for such a fool?

...had he? Robin had spoken so often of Grima as a kind divine, a protector, watching over humanity and guiding his people, even after his death, from the shadows that followed them. He’d told Chrom of the voice he heard at the Dragon’s Table, a whisper that reassured him in his weakness and gave him heart to carry on. Perhaps the hierophant had believed in a destroyer...but the man Chrom loved had believed in a gentle divine. 

And with all his heart, the prince believed in Robin. 

He touched the book with shaking fingers, feeling the hum of energy through the fine scales that bound its pages. There could be no turning back now. Lifting it off the floor--

Pain shot through him in waves, keeping time with the beat of his own heart. The agony seared his mind and senses, leaving him blind and deaf and numb and begging any divine who might hear to end it -- and the shadows answered, rising up to embrace him and leaving nothing in their wake. 


	10. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alerted to his son's defection, the Exalt arrives at the Dragon's Table to put a stop to the fell dragon's return once and for all. Chrom, battle-worn and overwhelmed by Grima's power, is all that stands in the way of his goal. The artifacts have all been gathered. The longest night has arrived. The moon has waned to new. And Grima's vessel lies empty, waiting for a soul...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is effectively the final chapter of this story: only an epilogue remains after this -- and after everything that's transpired, hopefully this will prove an uplifting finale. <3
> 
> For the first time in a while, we have a new break format! As before, double lines (=) separate 'dreams' (in italics) from reality; but we also have stars (*) indicating a shift of perspective from one character to another. Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

The Ylissean procession rode through the desert as the last light of day turned the dunes around them into a shimmering sea of gold. Emmeryn had never seen Plegia herself before, merely heard her father’s endless stories of the infuriating slog across terrain that baked under the brutal heat...but she found no flaw in the glowing country they traversed. It was as lovely in her eyes as Robin had claimed. 

The halidom's horses managed little better than a crawling pace through the ever-shifting sands, and part of her was glad for it: while she did not relish her father's temper, which only grew more volatile with each delay, she was grateful for the extra time it bought her brother. The Exalt had noticed the absence of Naga’s holy blade by dawn following Chrom's departure; come midday, he had discovered that the prince, too, was nowhere to be found. Though both princesses had claimed ignorance when confronted, as had Frederick when asked if anything had seemed amiss in his daily rounds, word arrived before the week was out that Chrom had been sighted entering Plegia astride a foreign horse, transporting what the guard presumed was a body -- and before the next sunrise, their father had ridden out on the warpath with a detachment of soldiers, the Fire Emblem shining on his arm. 

“First the snow, now this damned sand -- why must the gods try me so?” the Exalt growled as his destrier fought to make headway through the shadowed valley between dunes. 

“Perhaps the gods disapprove of what you aim to do,” Emmeryn murmured, stroking her own mare’s neck as the tired horse struggled to keep pace. 

Her father turned in his saddle, fixing her with a steely glare. “Watch your tongue. It is only by my goodwill that you accompany us at all.”

That, she knew, was true: he had not asked his oldest daughter to join his retinue, and in all likelihood, he would have preferred she stay behind and leave him to whatever draconian punishment he planned for his son. With his fury so single-mindedly fixated on Plegia, he had not opposed her presence when she appeared in the midst of his troop; but with each obstacle that appeared, his patience wore thinner, and as day waned toward moonless night she knew what little benevolence he retained would be in yet shorter supply…

A flicker of light from somewhere ahead drew her gaze. In the distance, a spire rose over the desert, clearly visible even from the valley they traversed -- but while clear skies stretched from horizon to horizon, dark clouds swirled about its peak, spiraling outward in a growing vortex roiling with violet lightning. She was not alone in noticing the ominous sight: her father spurred his mount toward the tower, guiding the procession to the edge of the dunes and across the flat expanse dotted with scrub and cacti beyond. As they drew close, the setting sun cast a deep shadow over the stones surrounding the tower’s base, guiding them to the sandy steps leading up to an open archway, beyond which there was only darkness.

“The Dragon’s Table,” the Exalt muttered, dismounting and drawing his silver sword. “I might have known those wretched heathens would set things in motion here.” Gesturing to the soldiers, he charged up the stairs and past the threshold, the clanking of their armor deafening in the enclosed space; Emmeryn followed more slowly, gazing up at the spiral stair winding its way around the tower’s interior and the windows spaced at regular intervals that allowed the last of the sun’s red-gold light to illuminate the climb. Lifting the hem of her gown, the princess made her ascent, readily outpacing the guards who had exhausted themselves attempting to rush to the summit and keeping close behind her father’s steady march. The steps seemed to go on without end, and each time she glanced up she saw only yet more rising up into the shadows overhead…

But at last she saw the Exalt stumble, heard his low oath, and watched her own footing as she moved smoothly onto the platform at the spire’s peak. The round chamber was ringed by pillars that held aloft a domed roof, the skylight at its center revealing a glimpse of sky untouched by the clouds they had seen in their approach; as she moved beyond the columns, her gaze wandered across colored stones polished to a glowing luster that radiated out from the heart of the room, trailed up the shallow steps leading to a dark altar engraved with Grima’s six-eyed mark...and focused at last on the familiar figure that lay atop it, pale hair peeking out from beneath his gold-trimmed hood and hands folded over his chest with his brand looking up to the stars. 

“I knew it,” her father growled, mounting the stairs just ahead of her. “Those hex-slingers already have their curse nearly set.” As she looked around the platform, she saw a series of black plinths ringing the dais, an odd collection of objects displayed atop them: a crystal orb, a set of armor carved from bone, a horn-tipped pike, a serrated sword, a black shield, a mantle adorned with feathers, a ruby amulet -- and one empty gold stand. Gazing down at Robin’s body...she frowned, squinting slightly in the near-dark: his complexion seemed warm, almost life-like, though she could see no evidence of his breath--

“Destroy it all,” she heard the Exalt order as the armored soldiers at last arrived. “And burn the body.”

“You can’t!” Emmeryn protested. 

The man loomed over her, gripping her arm tightly enough to bruise. “I can,” he snarled, dragging her from the platform, “and I _will._ For too long these filthy heretics have hidden in this wasteland. I will put an end to them, starting here and now--”

The sound of metal striking stone rang through the rotunda as the last of the sun’s light vanished from the sky; in its place, a pale, flickering glow rose behind them, making their shadows dance eerily across the pillars ringing the chamber. They turned as one toward the top of the steps…

And as one they recoiled, staring in horror as a figure levered itself up out of the writhing shadows. She immediately recognized Naga’s holy fang, the blade shining bright through the gloom -- yet the man who held it seemed a stranger, his hair dark, his skin pale as death and shot through with black veins, his narrowed eyes glowing faintly red...

But she knew the brand on his shoulder. And even as tears blurred her sight, she stretched a hand toward him, pleading, searching desperately for any trace of recognition in his face. 

“Chrom…?”

***

Everything hurt. 

His joints ached as he dug Falchion’s point into the black stone floor, hauling himself to his feet with whatever strength he could dredge up, and his knees threatened to give way beneath him when he staggered toward the dark figures lurking before the altar. One of them moved, and he turned toward it, struggling to lift the blade that suddenly felt too heavy for his trembling arms…

“Chrom?”

He knew that voice. But when he tried to call his sister’s name, his breath came out as a wordless rasp. Lowering the point of his sword, he stumbled toward her, watching the other forms retreat while she reached out her hand…

“You _fool!”_

The roar shook the very stones beneath his feet. Chrom braced himself, securing his grip on Falchion’s hilt: he recognized that voice, too -- but that did not change the threat he felt from the monstrous figure looming at his sister’s side. “How _dare_ you betray your brand like this, you gullible _wretch_ \-- you allowed the very incarnation of evil to seduce you with its lies _,_ and look at what it’s reduced you to: a corrupted puppet of the fell dragon’s will.”

He saw the shadow brandish a blade and staggered unsteadily toward the dais. He had to protect Robin -- he could not fail again, not after he’d come so far, he had to keep the altar safe…

“Pitiable thing,” he heard the man say, disgust rife in his voice as Chrom struggled to lift his sword into a defensive stance. “He is beyond hope now.” As the figure approached, the prince lashed out -- but a flash of silver parried the blow, and the Exalt’s face filled his view, his eyes colder than the blade he buried in Chrom’s chest. “What a waste,” his father muttered, only loud enough for the prince to hear. “I had such high hopes for you.”

Falchion fell from Chrom's hands, ringing on the polished floor. 

And his legs buckled, sending him crashing to the ground beside it.

===

_He could still see, hazily, the colored stones at the heart of the Dragon’s Table. He could still hear the distant echo of voices, slow and distorted. But he could feel the pull of the dark current, too, eddying around him as the warmth of the blood pooling beneath his body began to fade._

_“And so it comes to this.”_

_He recognized the voice, a low growl that filled his ears and shook him to the bone. “Grima?” he whispered._

_He felt something move within the encroaching shadows, warm feathers brushing against the back of his neck. “Yes, tiny one. I am here.”_

_Guilt twisted his stomach into sickening knots. The Exalt was at the Dragon’s Table, along with the prince's older sister, all easy prey should the fell dragon choose to strike them down. Grima’s essence had been gathered, the body prepared, the timing exact… “Will the world burn now?” he whispered._

_The voice laughed...not cruelly, but sadly. “No. Only Plegia will -- at that man’s hands. Even now he thinks of how he might turn the crime of cutting down his son to his advantage, painting it as an act of tragic heroism to garner accolades and hide the truth of his own hateful nature.”_

_“But the...your vessel is there,” Chrom protested. “The artifacts are all present, Grima’s Night is here…”_

_“And the moon is new. My power has truly reached its peak. Yes, I could take that body if I willed it: I have done much in your absences to heal the decay of death, and prepare it anew for life...but if I were to enter it, the soul you sought would be unable to return, for I could not leave that body until death claimed it a second time. And that runs counter to our agreement, does it not?”_

_Conflicting emotions warred within him: relief that he had not been misled by the quiet promise of Robin’s return; rage at the Exalt who would destroy the lands he had come to know so well; fear for the people he had met who would die under his father’s sword...hope that the young man he’d fought to save could live once more, and perhaps prevent this disaster. “Can you return Robin’s soul?” the prince begged. “He could stop the Exalt…”_

_“It is not so simple, tiny one,” the voice sighed, patient and forlorn. “I could return his spirit, yes. But his soul has not had a body, nor his body a soul, for some time now. He will not wake immediately, nor be able to move with ease even if he did. That man would slaughter him in cold blood once more before he could hope to defend himself -- and even now he plans to burn the body, and once it has been reduced to ash there is no hope of restoring his life.”_

_Chrom's chest tightened, a fresh wave of grief crashing over him. “There’s nothing we can do to stop this?”_

_“...there is one way,” the voice admitted. “But it would require still more of you.”_

_“What is it?” he demanded._

_“The artifacts that you collected each hold a part of my essence. For a millennium, they have granted a measure of my power to their holders by way of the fellblood that runs through their veins, which tempered my essence and allowed them to harness it to their wills. You, tiny one, have none of my blood: with each piece of my body that you took hold of, my power entered you and took root. You are not my vessel...but through you, I might manifest my power in the world long enough to stop that man from committing yet more atrocities -- just as you have prevented those who abuse my name for their own wicked ambitions from unleashing horrors onto this world.”_

_“...would Robin still get to live?” the prince asked._

_“Yes,” the voice promised. “But you must choose swiftly: your wound is dire, and your soul hovers at the edge of death. Very soon your life will be lost, and your chance with it.”_

_He hesitated for an instant, his chest tightening around his aching heart. “Can I hear him one more time?” he whispered, feeling the shadowy current flowing around him._

_“I am sorry, tiny one,” the voice replied. “The dangers are too great, and the time too short. You must decide: will you submit?”_

_Chrom drew a shuddering breath, feeling his strength seep away as a chill crept through his veins...and as his eyes pricked with tears, he breathed a silent apology to the man he loved._

_“I will.”_

===

Everything came back into focus, sharp and clear...but somehow strange, too, as though a pane of glass had been placed between him and the world. He saw his sister rush to kneel at his side while their father lifted Falchion from where it had fallen -- but the warmth of her touch as she lifted his head was muted, and her voice when she spoke was muffled and soft, in spite of how close she was. 

“You’re a monster!” she sobbed, turning toward the Exalt as he mounted the stairs to the altar, and he could _feel_ her grief and desolation in his own breast, her disgust and fury at their father’s acts smouldering at the edges of his mind (and he wondered if he was only imagining all this, since he’d never known his older sister capable of rage). 

The Exalt turned, brandishing his glowing sword at her. “Hold your tongue!” he snarled. 

“You _murdered your son!”_ she continued, undaunted by the blade trained on her chest.

“I did what was _necessary,_ ” he growled, “and if you do not keep _silent_ it will be necessary to bind you as an enemy of the halidom, yourself.”

Rage swept over the prince, swelling in his breast like a roar. He felt the heat of it prickle across his skin, spreading through every muscle, every nerve…

He moved. Not by his own will: some invisible puppeteer manipulated his limbs in a marionette dance, pulling him clumsily to his feet. Emmeryn and the Exalt recoiled as Chrom's hands gripped the silver sword still lodged in his chest, pulling it free and letting it clatter to the ground...but what spilled from the wound was not blood but shadow, swirling in a dense fog that clung to his clothes, spreading to cover him as his sister’s panic fluttered in his breast.

Even as the black mist rose to cover his head, he found that he could still see, his field of view broadening as he began to rise; the darkness surrounding him swelled, buoying him up toward the dome overhead while long wisps of shadow curled at the edges of his vision, thickening into horns as he looked down on the tiny figures standing on the colored stones far below. 

**“A millennium after your forebear laid me low, at last, the Wings of Despair once more fill the sky.”**

The booming voice shook the room, deep and resonant...yet he felt no triumph, nor even satisfaction. Instead he felt the terror of the soldiers below, Emmeryn’s shock and growing distress...and their father’s hatred and fury, tinged by a trace of true fear. “What has that fool done!?” the man snarled -- and a laugh came in answer, rumbling through the pillars that held the roof aloft. 

**“I have borrowed the body of this warrior.”**

The Exalt tightened his grip on his sword. “I will not allow you to rain destruction upon this world!” 

**“You have no say.”**

The man roared, charging with Falchion in hand. The prince's view tilted to watch his father slash at the thick shadows swirling across the floor -- and for the first time, he saw the full breadth of the form Grima’s essence had built: misty wings encircled the chamber, the feathers distinct one moment, swirling together in the next, while the serpentine neck craned to follow the luminous arc the sword carved through the air, banishing the dark only for an instant before the black fog swirled back in force. 

**“Fool.”**

The Exalt gritted his teeth, a rush of true panic coloring him in Chrom’s senses. He charged again -- and the shadowy head snaked down, grabbing him in teeth too substantial for mere mist. The man’s shout echoed through the rotunda as the apparition flicked its head, throwing him toward the ceiling...and as he fell, slashing wildly at the dark, the great jaws snapped him up, his scream falling suddenly silent as the shadows ripped him apart, the sword and shield he’d carried crashing to the stones far below. 

**“With the power of Naga’s Fang sealed away, you have no hope of quelling the Fell Dragon. The Breath of Ruin will spread across this land anew…”**

The prince watched his sister race forward, gathering the silver arms from where they’d fallen and backing away from the dark form. “Retreat!” she cried, gesturing to the armored soldiers. They did not hesitate to obey, racing for the stairs as Emmeryn clutched the objects to her, staring desperately up into the dark...and he wondered, briefly, why the force that moved his body did not strike her down, as it had his father. 

_She has done no harm to me or mine,_ Grima’s voice chuckled in his thoughts. _The one you sought spoke quite fondly of her as a friend. Even now, all she does is pray to Naga for her blessing, to awaken the fang’s power that it might protect them as they flee. A thousand years ago, Naga swore never to interfere with the affairs of mankind again -- I wonder if she will answer…_

Falchion’s glow flickered in his sister’s hands. 

And then it blazed with light, blue-white fire searing Chrom’s senses. Soft laughter filled his mind as the darkness retreated, the shadows burning away in the face of the divine dragon’s fire. _Seems we both have bent the rules to save our own._ But there was no spite in the voice he heard -- only a strange fondness, even amusement, as his body moved toward the light. The black fog continued to disperse as his feet touched the ground...and when he tried to step toward the figure in the doorway, he found that his body responded to his will, though the strength that moved him was borrowed from what shadows remained clinging to his back. 

Emmeryn did not flee as he approached, nor lash out at him with the holy blade she held. She only wept, staring into his eyes as he stopped before her, flinching slightly inward when he lifted a hand...but as he touched her cheek, drying her tears with the ball of his thumb, he saw her expression twist into a mournful smile. “Go,” he murmured, cupping her cheek. 

“I love you, Chrom,” she sobbed. 

“I love you, too,” he whispered. “Now go. Be safe.”

She nodded heavily, backing to the stairs. As her heel touched the edge of the top-most step, she let the sword fall from her hands; it embedded itself deep within the stones, standing upright and continuing to radiate light that made her tears shine before his eyes...and then she turned, disappearing from his view while the heat of Falchion’s flames warmed his skin. 

He turned, gazing toward the altar where Robin’s body still lay untouched. Smiling faintly to himself, he moved between the pillars, stumbling as he reached the colored stones; weakness crept through his limbs, the mist dispersing as he looked up at the open roof toward a sky full of more stars than he had once dreamed possible…

And then he fell, the last of his strength seeping away into the dark. 

***

_“Wake up, little heart.”_

Robin opened his eyes. 

It was difficult at first: he could manage little more than a narrow slit to begin. But as he roused, he found stars awaiting him, and idly mapped the familiar constellations he could see in that tiny window of sky while he puzzled over his confused, hazy memories. He’d heard a voice calling to him...and before that, a familiar, comforting presence in the dark, warm feathers on his skin--

He shivered as a chill ran through him, pulling his coat closer with weak, unsteady hands. Tilting his head, he peered at the ornate columns ringing the room...and frowned, slowly turning onto his side as recognition set in. The Dragon’s Table...how had he gotten here? He’d been in Ylisse, he was sure of it -- there had been snow, and warm arms around him, and a kiss that chased away the cold…

“Chrom?” Levering himself up, he settled on the edge of the altar, blinking through the bright firelight at the odd items surrounding the platform and searching for the source of the pale glow. He found it when he turned toward the stairs: a blade standing at the top of the steps, surrounded by blue-white flames (and something about it sent a chill down his spine)...and just beyond the edge of the dais, a body lay sprawled on the floor, its shadow darkening the gemstone tiles. 

Even with the brand cloaked in shadow, Robin knew that figure, and whatever fear the sword might have stirred in him paled before the terror that shot through his veins as he bolted from the altar--

_“Slow down, little heart.”_

By the time his mind recognized the words, his knees had already buckled, sending him crashing to the ground. _“Take care, now. Your body has not moved in some time,”_ the voice whispered patiently. 

Well, he supposed that if his legs would not support him, he would simply have to find another way. Pushing himself up onto his hands and knees, he crawled across the polished floor, taking hold of the prince’s arm and pulling him onto his back. “Chrom?” Robin touched the man’s cheek, trembling at the chill that met his fingers. The memories came crashing back in waves now: the Exalt, the blade, pain giving way to warm darkness; the consolation of that soft voice he’d once heard at the altar, the fraught journey followed from whispers and shadows, the unbearably brief meetings at the border of life and death as the prince grew ever weaker…

“Chrom, please,” he begged, scanning the dark veins winding through the prince’s ashen skin, the ragged state of his battle-worn clothes...the deep wound in his breast. “...gods, no,” he whispered, feeling a trembling breath snare in his throat as he gently lifted Chrom’s head into his lap. Bowing low over the body, he curled inward until his forehead touched the prince’s brow, his eyes burning as tears welled in the corners. “I’m sorry…”

Something stirred his hair. 

Robin blinked, lifting his head...and as he watched, he saw Chrom’s chest rise, very slightly, with a shallow breath. “He’s alive?” 

_“Yes,”_ the soft voice answered. _“His body yet clings to life, and I still hold his soul...but his wound is mortal, and his strength swiftly fades: he will die without care.”_

Robin reached into his pockets, frantically turning them inside out one by one...only to find them all empty. “No -- no, no, _no,_ ” he sobbed, raking his hands through his hair. “ _Please,_ there has to be _something…_ ”

_“The blade.”_

He stopped, turning his gaze again to the sword standing before the stairs, its point buried deep within the dark stone. The blue-white flame that blazed around it felt searing hot, even from this distance, and something about it made Robin's throat feel tight. “What is it?”

 _“It is Naga’s fang at the height of its power. In that state, it can restore a life -- even one on the verge of death. But take care, little heart,”_ the whisper warned as Robin gently lay Chrom’s head down and struggled toward his feet, _“for that blade was forged to slay dragons: it took my life a millennium ago, and the blood that flows through you will put you at equal risk.”_

“What other choice is there?” he demanded, shielding his eyes as he stumbled toward the blade. Pulling his sleeves up to cover his hands in a half-hearted attempt to protect himself from the fire, Robin grabbed the hilt and wrenched the sword up--

He yelped, dropping the blade as its heat seared through his clothes to burn his fingers. It clattered to the stones as he staggered back, falling to his knees and staring down at the blisters already rising on his skin...and then he clenched his teeth, gathered his feet beneath him, and lifted the sword again. The flames blazed, searing his palms and wrists, and he bit back the scream that filled his chest...though a whimper still escaped as agony overwhelmed his senses, his body shaking and his legs threatening to give way as he dragged the burning fang behind him. 

Collapsing at Chrom's side, Robin gently folded the prince’s fingers around the hilt. “Please,” he sobbed. “Please save him -- after everything he did, everything he _suffered,_ pleaselet him live, _please…_ ”

Through the tears that blurred his sight, he saw the blade’s glow spread up Chrom’s arm and across his body, the black veins retreating ahead of its light. His gaze fixed on the wound, watching as the pale fire touched the edges...and began to knit them closed, leaving only a pink scar woven through with thin dark lines. Reaching up, he pressed the backs of his scorched fingers to the prince’s cheek, feeling warmth against his skin and daring to hope that he might not have been too late. “Chrom…?”

The prince stirred, drawing in an unsteady breath as he squinted against the light. And then his eyes flew open, a wondering smile breaking across his face. “Robin…?”

He had no chance to respond. Even as he smiled, Chrom surged upright, pulling the young man into a fierce embrace that crushed the breath from his lungs. “You’re here,” he sobbed. “You’re _really here --_ gods, I’ve missed you so much...I’m so glad you’re alright…”

“It’s only thanks to you,” Robin laughed, wrapping his arms around the prince’s neck -- and the tears he shed had nothing at all to do with his burns. 

They held like that, clinging to each other in the pale firelight until they both began to tremble from the strain. And even then, they did not let go: Chrom levered himself upright, dragging Robin down into his lap and burying his face in the soft folds of the young man’s hood. “I was afraid I’d never see you again,” he whispered. 

“It seems the divines have been conspiring on our behalf,” Robin murmured, nestling closer as a hum of mirth reached his ears from somewhere beyond the shadows--

“You’re hurt.”

He blinked as the prince gently touched his knuckles, careful not to jostle the young man's charred hands. “It’s a small price to pay, to have you here,” Robin murmured, a soft smile tugging at his lips. 

“...if I argue, you’re just going to point out what I did, aren’t you,” Chrom mumbled, sighing at the young man's emphatic nod. “I regret not bringing the vulneraries.”

Before Robin could think to ask, the prince shifted, wrapping his arms around the young man to help him up -- and as Chrom faltered, Robin steadied him, helping to guide them both to their feet. Leaning down to lift the luminous sword from the floor beside him, the prince slipped his other arm around the young man’s waist, and together they picked their way down the winding stairs that led from the spire’s peak with Chrom’s blade to light the way. It was a slow descent, but tucked against the prince’s side, feeling his warmth and his laughter both, Robin hardly minded. There would be time enough for questions later, after they’d had time to eat and rest...though it was only as they stepped out into the moonless dark that he thought to wonder how they would make their way from the tower--

_“ROBIN!!!”_

If the shout had not caught him by surprise, the sudden impact that sent him and Chrom both sprawling into the sand certainly did. “...Henry?” he asked, peering down at the tousled mop of pale hair splayed across his chest. The incoherent mumble in reply seemed confirmation enough. “What are you doing here? I thought you were at Carrion Isle--"

A bright, familiar wicker interrupted whatever else he meant to ask. Looking up, he saw Amber trotting toward them…and at her heels, a crowd of familiar faces that brought a fresh mist of tears to his eyes. “What are you all doing here?” he repeated, looking between his mother, his uncles, his grandfather, and his friends as they clustered around him. 

“Well, presently I'm losing a bet with your mother,” Gangrel replied flippantly, grinning as she swatted his arm. 

“Your Ylissean friend informed us that he was preparing something at the Dragon's Table,” Campari chuckled, turning a surprisingly fond smile on the prince while tugging uselessly at the dark mage attached to Robin's coat. 

“Seems we all decided independently to come see for ourselves and pay our respects,” Orton added. 

“What happened to your hands!?” Tharja demanded, storming over and attempting to dislodge Henry herself to get a better look -- which, rather predictably, only made the dark mage cling tighter. 

His mother immediately set to digging through her pockets and satchels. “Hold a moment, I think I have a rune here somewhere…”

“Wren, please,” her brother protested, “remember the last time you tried a rune? It set half the village on fire and spooked the goats so bad we couldn't wrangle them for three days.”

“For Grima's sake, Jay, I was _twelve!”_

Robin couldn't help but beam at the familiar bickering, reaching up to stroke Amber's nose with the backs of his fingers while she nuzzled his hair. “I'm surprised to see you breathing,” Vasto remarked, his voice oddly choked as he avoided Gangrel's knowing smirk. 

“I'm surprised to _be_ breathing,” Robin confessed as Mustafa reached into the sand and picked him and Henry both up, setting them on their feet before helping Chrom to his (and crushing the prince in a tight hug that made Robin giggle into his sleeve)--

“Chrom!!”

He and the prince both looked up as Emmeryn rushed through the group, flinging her arms around her brother's neck and holding fast. “I thought I'd lost you,” she sobbed.

“Sorry for worrying you,” he murmured, hugging her tight.

“...forgive me,” Robin interrupted sheepishly, managing to briefly free himself from Henry's clinging, “but I'm afraid I've missed something. Possibly several somethings. When did you arrive in Plegia? Have...have you all met? What's going o--"

He found himself cut off as the princess embraced him with shocking strength. Lissa always had insisted that she was not delicate...yet he had somehow never questioned her sister’s light touch. “I can't believe it,” she laughed, pulling back enough to see his face. “You're here -- you're truly here with us again, thank Naga…” She paused, looking up at the spire reaching toward the cloudless night and all its stars. “Or...perhaps I should thank Grima?”

Robin smiled, glancing at the sword still glowing bright in the sands beside Chrom. “...I believe thanks to both may be in order.” 

“And I believe that dawdling here isn't going to get any of you looked after,” his mother huffed, pulling her son into a warm, fierce hug. “We’ll be rather late for the festivities, but I do hope you'll join us, Lady Emmeryn.”

“It would be my honor,” the princess beamed.

In the flurry of activity that followed as wyverns and horses were called up and mounted, Robin felt warm arms fold gently around him, lifting him effortlessly off the ground and up behind Amber's saddle. “I hope you don't mind me borrowing her again,” Chrom chuckled, lifting his blade from the ground and sheathing it at his side.

“Not in the least,” Robin agreed. “I'm curious to see how much you've improved.”

“Then we'll just have to show you all the tricks we’ve picked up,” the prince grinned, pulling himself up onto the mare’s back. Wrapping his arms loosely around Chrom's waist, Robin settled in close against the prince's back as Amber bounded ahead of the procession, her head held high and her steps prancing through the sand. He heard talk and mirth and banter all around him, as warm and familiar as every Grima's Night he'd known since he was a child...and as Chrom cast a charming grin over his shoulder, Robin’s own laughter joined in, ringing clear through the night as they made their way home.


	11. What Remains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much has changed. But some things will ever remain the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, at last, we reach the end of the story. Just a brief glimpse of life after the journey to cap things off right. <3

Robin wandered through the palace halls at a meandering pace, tallying off the various and sundry items that had been completed from the day’s agenda and trying to recall what had yet to be done. “Alright, so we tidied up the trade negotiations for discussion with the Feroxi ambassadors, drew up the manifest of items we’ll be sending overseas with our Chon’sin emissary, inspected the preparations for our guests’ supper…anything else on the morning's agenda?”

“There’s the wyvern brigade to check on,” Lucina mumbled, chewing over an extra bit of nougat he had pretended not to see her sneak during their thinly-veiled excuse for a kitchen raid. 

“Ah, yes! I knew I was forgetting something,” the Plegian king chuckled. “Thank you for reminding me, my little light.”

Her face lit up at the familiar endearment, the brand in her left eye glowing as she squeezed his hand. “Is Father coming?”

“I’m certain he would enjoy seeing their pre-flight drill,” Robin agreed. “Shall we go fetch him and the twins?” 

His oldest daughter nodded, skipping along at his side while he hummed a quiet, familiar tune. Looking at her, it amazed him to think of all that had changed over the years: the peace that had finally settled over the continent as Gangrel ceded the crown to Grima’s Heart and Exalt Emmeryn took the halidom’s throne; the cooperation that had finally flourished between Plegia and her neighbor as borders at last opened; the joy that had swept them all up as their nations came together -- not simply as allies, but as family once Chrom and Robin married, with a wedding procession that moved from one capital to the other and brought crowds to every roadside and festivities to every town. 

There had been trials, of course. The death of the last Exalt could not remain a mystery long, and Naga’s church had been up in arms over the part Chrom played, attempting to order his exile -- but Emmeryn had stood firm against them, overturning their decree with an exalted command of her own. Even beyond that, the touch of a foreign divine’s power had left lasting scars upon then both: the lingering traces of Grima’s presence in Chrom never faded, leaving a delicate spiderweb of dark veins knit through the scar on his breast, and though the wound had healed on the surface his heart sometimes faltered under strain; and the fire that had so deeply burned Robin’s hands had never fully mended, leaving his skin callused and his grip weak. But they had adapted, supporting one another through recovery and rehabilitation both and becoming all the stronger for it. 

Borders had not stood between their families, and as they grew, their visits only became more frequent. Their children had seen the brilliant stars that filled Plegia’s skies in winter and the verdant forests of Ylisse in summer, sunrises that made the desert shine like gold and full moons that turned the snow to silver. They were happy, surrounded always by friends and family...and most of all, they were loved.

Lucina smiled up at him as they wound their way up a tight spiral staircase, her voice joining his in the comforting stillness, and he shifted easily to offer the harmony to her melody as they made their way along the hall--

“C-could I get a little help here -- ow! Hey, no biting, remember?”

Robin and his daughter both paused, stifling laughter as they peered around the nearest doorway. Sure enough, Chrom was sprawled out on the ground, the pale-haired twins flopped across his back (and one looking at least mildly apologetic about the tiny indents on the prince’s well-tanned arm). “Goodness, what’s been going on here?”

“Let’s see,” Chrom mused, propping his chin on his hands. “The faithful servants of the fell dragon have been doing battle with the Exalt in their master’s service -- did I get that right?” he asked, glancing over first one shoulder, then the other, as the children nodded. “The Exalt is soundly defeated and could use a little mercy right about now.”

“Well, in that case,” the king chuckled, sauntering into the room. “Grima commends his dear attendants, and bids them to show kindness to a foe who has relented. Come now,” he smiled, crouching down with arms spread wide. 

The twins beamed, rolling from their father’s back and toddling into Robin’s arms. He hugged them tight, pressing kisses to the crowns of their heads before rising again and offering a hand down to his husband while their youngest ducked under the tails of his coat; grinning, Chrom gripped his wrist, rising to his feet with the king’s aid…

He faltered, very slightly, stumbling into his husband’s arms. “I might have taken that a little too fast,” the prince mumbled, folding his hands at the small of Robin’s back and nestling his head against the soft folds of the king’s hood.

“That’s alright,” Robin murmured, piecing his fingers through Chrom’s hair. “We’ve time to spare.”

The prince tilted his head, a smile curving across his face. “Even though company’s coming?”

“I think your sisters will forgive a minor delay,” the king scoffed. 

“Auntie Emm an’ Auntie Lissa coming?” Morgan piped up. 

“Owain coming, too?” Marc asked. 

“Yes, and yes,” Robin agreed. The twins cheered, flinging their hands up and zooming around the play room in an over-excited frenzy, grabbing any prop weapon they could find and proceeding to squabble over the first wooden sword and mock tome they managed to uncover. Without prompting, Lucina moved to break up the fuss, her own hand falling proudly to the training blade her father had so recently given her--

The kiss broke his attention, warm and slow and sweet. Leaning into it, the king cupped his husband’s face in callused hands, returning that affection in equal measure. “Love you,” the prince murmured against Robin’s lips. 

“And I love you,” the king replied, nestling closer within Chrom’s embrace…

A flurry of giggles rose nearby. They both looked down to see their children watching them, the twins bouncing giddily in place while Lucina tried and failed to hide a smile. “Father, the wyvern brigade is going to perform for Aunt Lissa and Aunt Emmeryn’s arrival. Would you like to see their warm-up drills?”

“Yes!” the prince replied eagerly. Leaning down, he scooped Morgan up and placed her on his shoulders while Robin knelt for Marc to hop onto his back. Rising to his feet again, he shared a fond smile with his husband, and together they both followed their oldest daughter out into the hall and toward the bright desert beyond their palace home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so Cursed Fate comes to a close. 
> 
> It's still crazy for me to think how quickly this whole piece came together: in under two months this has gone from loose concept to plotted outline to completed work. Thank you all so much for giving this piece a chance (especially while it was still incomplete, since that was a lot of angst to worry through for a while), for your kudos and your comments and just for taking the time to read it -- it means the world to know that you found something in this that you enjoyed, and I hope that after all the emotional lows from the chapters prior, this final glimpse of happiness ends the whole thing on a high note. <3


End file.
